THE    MARRYING 
OF  ANN    LEETE 
A  COMEDY,  IN  FOUR  ACTS, 
BY  GRANVILLE  BARKER 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND   COMPANY 

1916 


Copyright,  igog,  igi6. 
By  Granville  Barker. 


All  rights  reserved 


Published,  February,  191 6 


THE  MjIRRYING  OF  ANN  LEETE  it  fully  protected  by  copy- 
right. It  must  not  be  performed  either  by  amateurs  or  professionals 
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To  the  memory  of  my  fellow-worker, 


333733 


The  Marrying  of  Ann  Leete 

A  COMEDY 
1899 


THE  MARRYING  OF  ANN  LEETE 

The  first  three  acts  of  the  comedy  pass  in  the  garden  at 
Markswayde,  mr.  carnaby  leete's  house  near  Read- 
ing, during  a  summer  day  towards  the  close  of  the 
eighteenth  century:  the  first  act  at  four  in  the  morn- 
ing, the  second  shortly  after  mid-day,  the  third  near 
to  sunset.  The  fourth  act  takes  place  one  day  in 
the  following  winter;  the  first  scene  in  the  hall  at 
Markswayde,  the  second  scene  in  a  cottage  some 
ten  miles  off. 

This  part  of  the  Markswayde  garden  looks  to  have  been 
laid  out  during  the  seventeenth  century.  In  the 
middle  a  fountain;  the  centrepiece  the  figure  of  a 
nymph,  now  somewhat  cracked,  and  pouring  nothing 
from  the  amphora;  the  rim  of  the  fountain  is  high 
enough  and  broad  enough  to  be  a  comfortable  seat. 

The  close  turf  around  is  in  parts  worn  bare.  This  plot  of 
ground  is  surrounded  by  a  terrace  three  feet  higher. 
Three  sides  of  it  are  seen.  From  two  corners  broad 
steps  lead  down;  stone  urns  stand  at  the  bottom  and 
top  of  the  stone  balustrades.  The  other  two  corners 
are  rounded  convexly  into  broad  stone  seats. 

Along  the  edges  of  the  terrace  are  growing  rose  trees, 
close  together;  behind  these,  paths;  behind  those, 
shrubs  and  trees.  No  landscape  is  to  be  seen.  A 
big  copper  beech  overshadows  the  seat  on  the  left. 
A  silver  birch  droops  over  the  seat  on  the  right. 
The  trees  far  to  the  left  indicate  an  orchard,  the 
few  to  the  right  are  more  of  the  garden  sort.  It  is 
the  height  of  summer,  and  after  a  long  drought  the 
rose  trees  are  dilapidated, 
I 


g  THE   MAKRYING  OF  [act  i 

It  is  very  dark  in  the  garden.  Though  there  may  he  by 
now  a  faint  morning  light  in  the  sky,  it  has  not  pen- 
etrated yet  among  these  trees.  It  is  very  still,  too. 
Now  and  then  the  leaves  of  a  tree  are  stirred,  as  if 
in  its  sleep;  that  is  all.  Suddenly  a  shrill,  fright- 
ened, but  not  tragical,  scream  is  heard.  After  a 
moment  ann  leete  runs  quickly  down  the  steps  and 
on  to  the  fountain,  where  she  stops,  panting,  lord 
JOHN  CARP  follows  her,  but  only  to  the  top  of  the 
steps,  evidently  not  knowing  his  way.  ann  is  a  girl 
of  twenty;  he  an  English  gentleman,  nearer  forty 
than  thirty. 

LORD  JOHN.    I  apologise. 

ANN.    Why  is  it  so  dark? 

LORD  JOHN.    Can  you  hear  what  rm  saying? 

ANN.    Yes. 

LORD  JOHN.     I   apologise   for  having  kissed  you  .  .  . 
almost  unintentionally. 

ANN.    Thank  you.    Mind  the  steps  down. 

LORD  JOHN.    I  hope  I'm  sober,  but  the  air  .  .  . 

ANN.     Shall  we  sit  for  a  minute?    There  are  several 
seats  to  sit  on,  somewhere. 

LORD  JOHN.    This  is  a  very  dark  garden. 
There  is  a  slight  pause. 

ANN.    You've  won  your  bet. 

LORD  JOHN.     So  you  did  scream! 

ANN.     But  it  wasn't  fair. 

LORD  JOHN.     Don't  reproach  me. 

ANN.     Somebody's  coming. 

LORD  JOHN.     How  d'you  know ? 

ANN.     I  can  hear  somebody  coming. 

LORD  JOHN.     We're  not  sitting  down. 

Ann's  brother,  george  leete,  comes  to  the  top  of 
the  steps,  and  afterwards  down  them.  Rather  an 
old  young  man. 


ACT  i]  ANN   LEETE  3 

GEORGE.    Ann ! 

ANN.     Yes. 

GEORGE.     My  lord ! 

LORD  JOHN.    Here. 

GEORGE.  I  can't  see  you.  I*m  sent  to  say  we're  all  anx- 
ious to  know  what  ghost  or  other  bird  of  night  or  beast 
has  frightened  Ann  to  screaming  point,  and  won  you  .  .  . 
the  best  in  Tatton's  stables — so  he  says  now.  He's  quite 
annoyed. 

LORD  JOHN.    The  mare  is  a  very  good  mare. 

ANN.  He  betted  it  because  he  wanted  to  bet  it ;  I  didn't 
want  him  to  bet  it. 

GEORGE.    What  frightened  her? 

ANN.  I  had  rather,  my  lord,  that  you  did  not  tell  my 
brother  why  I  screamed. 

LORD  JOHN.    I  kissed  her. 

GEORGE.    Did  you  ? 

ANN.  I  had  rather,  Lord  John,  that  you  had  not  told 
my  brother  why  I  screamed. 

LORD  JOHN.    I  misunderstood  you. 

GEORGE.  I've  broke  up  the  whist  party.  Ann,  shall 
we  return? 

LORD  JOHN.    She's  not  here. 

GEORGE.    Ann ! 

LADY  COTTESHAM,  ann's  sistev,  and  ten  years  older, 
and  MR.  DANIEL  tatton,  a  well-living,  middle-aged 
country  gentleman,  arrive  together,  tatton  carries 
a  double  candlestick  .  .  .  the  lights  out. 

MR.  TATTON.    Three  steps? 

SARAH.    No  .  .  .  four. 

LORD  JOHN.    Miss  Lectc. 

TATTON,   in   the   darkness,  -finds  himself  close   to 

GEORGE. 

MR.  TATTON.    I  am  in  a  rage  with  you,  my  lord. 
GEORGE.    He  lives  next  door. 


4  THE  MARRYING  OF  [act  i 

MR.  TATTON.  My  mistake.  [He  passes  on.']  Confess 
that  she  did  it  to  please  you. 

LORD  JOHN.     Screamed! 

MR.  TATTON.  Lost  my  bet.  We'll  say  .  .  .  won  your 
bet  .  .  to  please  you.  Was  skeered  at  the  dark  .  .  . 
oh,  fie! 

LORD  JOHN.     Miss  Leete  trod  on  a  toad. 

MR.  TATTON.     I  barred  toads  .  .  .  here. 

LORD  JOHN.     I  don't  think  it. 

MR.  TATTON.  I  barred  toads.  Did  I  forget  to?  Well 
.  .  .  it's  better  to  be  a  sportsman. 

SARAH.     And  whereabouts  is  she? 

ANN.  [From  the  corner  she  has  slunk  ^o.]  Here  I  am, 
Sally. 

MR.  TATTON.  Miss  Ann,  I  forgive  you.  I'm  smiling, 
I  assure  you,  I'm  smiling. 

SARAH.     We  all  laughed  when  we  heard  you. 

MR.  TATTON.  Which  reminds  me,  young  George  Leete, 
had  you  the  ace? 

GEORGE.  King  .  .  .  knave  .  .  .  here  are  the  cards,  but 
I  can't  see. 

MR.  TATTON.     I  had  the  king. 

ANN.     [Quietly  to  her  sister.]    He  kissed  me. 

SARAH.     A  man  would. 

GEORGE.     What  were  trumps? 

MR.  TATTON.     What  wcre  we  playing  .  .  .  cricket? 

ANN.     [As  quietly  again.]    D'you  think  I'm  blushing? 

SARAH.     It's  probable. 

ANN.    I  am  by  the  feel  of  me. 

SARAH.     George,  we  left  Papa  sitting  quite  still. 

LORD  JOHN.     Didn't  he  approve  of  the  bet? 

MR.  TATTON.    He  Said  nothing. 

SARAH.     Why,  who  doesn't  love  sport! 

MR.  TATTON.    I'm  the  man  to  grumble.    Back  a  woman's 


ACT  i]  ANN   LEETE 


pluck   again  .  .  .  never.     My   lord  .  .  .  you  weren't   the 
one  to  go  with  her  as  umpire. 

GEORGE.     No  ...  to  be  sure. 

MR.  TATTON.  How  was  it  I  let  that  pass?  Playing  two 
games  at  once.  Haven't  I  cause  of  complaint?  But  a  man 
must  give  and  take. 

The  master  of  the  house,  father  of  george  and 

SARAH    COTTESHAM    and    ANN,    MR.    CARNABY    LEETE, 

comes  slowly  down  the  steps,  unnoticed  by  the  oth- 
ers.   A  man  over  fifty — a  la  Lord  Chesterfield. 

GEORGE.  [To  Lord  John.']  Are  you  sure  you're  quite 
comfortable  there? 

LORD  JOHN.  Whatever  I'm  sitting  on  hasn't  given  way 
yet. 

MR.  TATTON.  Don't  forgct  that  you're  riding  to  Brighton 
with  me. 

LORD  JOHN.    To-morrow. 

GEORGE.  To-day.  Well  .  .  .  the  hour  before  sunrise  is 
no  time  at  all. 

MR.  TATTON.     Sixty-fivc  milcs. 

LORD  JOHN.    What  are  we  all  sitting  here  for? 

MR.  TATTON.     I  say  pcoplc  ought  to  be  in  bed  and  asleep. 

CARNABY.     But  the  moming  air  is  delightful. 

MR.  TATTON.  [Jumping  at  the  new  voice.']  Leete !  Now, 
had  you  the  ace? 

CARNABY.    Of  course. 

MR.  TATTON.  We  should  have  lost  that,  too.  Lady 
Charlie. 

SARAH.    Bear  up,  Mr.  Tat. 

MR.  TATTON.    Come,  a  game  of  whist  is  a  game  of  whist. 

CARNABY.    And  so  I  strolled  out  after  you  all. 

MR.  TATTON.     She  trod  on  a  toad. 

CARNABY.     [Carelessly.]    Does  she  say  so? 

MR.  TATTON.     [With  mock  roQuishncss.]    Ah! 

GEORGE  is  on  the  terrace,  looking  to  the  left  through 


6  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  t 

the  trees,     tatton  is  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
fountain. 

GEORGE.     Here's  the  sun  ...  to  show  us  ourselves. 

MR.  TATTON.     Leete,  this  pond  is  full  of  water ! 

CARNABY.    Ann,  if  you  are  there  .  .  . 

ANN.     Yes,  Papa. 

CARNABY.    Apologise  profusely;  it's  your  garden. 

ANN.     Oh  .  .  . 

CARNABY.     Coat-tails,  Tatton  ...  or  worse  ? 

MR.  TATTON.  [Ruefully  discovering  damp  spots  about 
him.']    Nothing  vastly  to  matter. 

LORD  JOHN.     Hardy,  well-preserved  country  gentleman. 

MR.  TATTON.    I  bet  Vvci  a  younger  man  than  you,  my  lord. 

ANN.  [^Suddenly  to  the  company  generally.]  I  didn't 
tread  upon  any  toad  ...  I  was  kissed. 

There  is  a  pause  of  some  discomfort, 

SARAH.    Ann,  come  here  to  me. 

LORD  JOHN.     I  apologised. 

GEORGE.     {From  the  terrace.]    Are  we  to  be  insulted? 

CARNABY.     My  dear  Carp,  say  no  more. 

There  is  another  short  pause.    By  this  it  is  twilight, 
faces  can  he  plainly  seen. 

SARAH.    Listen  .  .  .  the  first  bird. 

MR.  TATTON.  Oh,  dear  no,  they  begin  to  sing  long  be- 
fore this. 

CARNABY.    What  is  it  now  ...  a  lark? 

MR.  TATTON.      I  don't  kuOW. 

ANN.     {Quietly  to  sarah.]    That's  a  thrush. 

SARAH.     [Capping  her.]    A  thrush. 

CARNABY.     Charming. 

MR.  TATTON.  [To  LORD  JOHN.]  I  don't  See  why  you 
couldn't  have  told  me  how  it  was  that  she  screamed. 

CARNABY.  Our  dear  Tatton !  [Sotto  voce  to  his  son."] 
Hold  your  tongue,  George. 


ACT  i]  ANN    LEETE 


MR.  TATTON.  I  did  bar  toads,  and  you  said  I  didn't ;  and 
anyway,  I  had  a  sort  of  right  to  know. 

LORD  JOHN.     You  know  now. 

SARAH.    I  wonder  if  this  seat  is  dry  ? 

LORD  JOHN.     There's  been  no  rain  for  weeks. 

SARAH.    The  roads  will  be  dusty  for  you,  Mr.  Tat. 

MR.  TATTON.  Just  one  momcnt.  You  don't  mind  me, 
Miss  Ann,  do  you? 

ANN.     I  don't  mind  much. 

MR.  TATTON.  We  said  distinctly  ...  To  the  orchard 
end  of  the  garden  and  back,  and  if  frightened — that's  the 
word — so  much  as  to  scream  .  .  .  !  Now,  what  I  want 
to  know  is  .  .  . 

LORD  JOHN.    Consider  the  bet  off. 

MR.  TATTON.  Certainly  not.  And  we  should  have  added 
.  .  .  Alone. 

CARNABY.    Tatton  has  persistence. 

SARAH.  Mr.  Tat,  do  you  know  where  people  go  who 
take  things  seriously? 

MR.  TATTON.  Miss  Lcctc,  wcre  you  frightened  when 
Lord  John  kissed  you? 

GEORGE.    Damnation ! 

CARNABY.     My  excellent  Tatton,  much  as  I  admire  your 
searchings  after  truth,  I  must  here  parentally  intervene, 
regretting,  my  dear  Tatton,  that  my  own  carelessness  of 
duennahood  has  permitted  this — this  ...  to  occur. 
After  this,  there  is  silence  for  a  minute, 

LORD  JOHN.    Can  I  borrow  a  horse  of  you,  Mr.  Leete? 

CARNABY.  My  entire  stable;  and  your  Ronald  shall  be 
physicked. 

SARAH.    Spartans  that  you  are,  to  be  riding ! 

LORD  JOHN.     I  prefer  it  to  a  jolting  chaise. 

MR.  TATTON.     You  will  have  my  mare. 

LORD  JOHN.  [Ignoring  him.']  This  has  been  a  most 
enjoyable  three  weeks. 


8  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  i 

CARNABY.       Four. 

LORD  JOHN.    Is  it  four? 

CARNABY.  We  bow  to  the  compliment.  Our  duty  to  his 
Grace. 

LORD  JOHN.    When  I  see  him. 

GEORGE.     To  our  dear  cousin. 

MR.  TATTON.  [To  LADY  COTTESHAM.]  Sir  Charles  at 
Brighton? 

SARAH.  [Not  answering.']  To  be  sure  ...  we  did  dis- 
cover .  .  .  our  mother  was  second  cousin  .  .  .  once  re- 
moved to  you. 

CARNABY.  If  the  prince  will  be  there  ...  he  is  in 
waiting. 

LORD  JOHN.  Any  message,  Lady  Cottesham?  .  .  .  since 
we  speak  out  of  session. 

SARAH.    I  won't  trust  you. 

CARNABY.  Or  trouble  you  while  I  still  may  frank  a  let- 
ter. But  my  son-in-law  is  a  wretched  correspondent.  Do 
you  admire  men  of  small  vices?  They  make  admirable 
husbands  though  their  wives  will  be  grumbhng — Silence, 
Sarah — but  that's  a  good  sign. 

SARAH.     Papa  is  a  connoisseur  of  humanity. 

ANN.  [To  the  company  as  before.]  No,  Mr.  Tatton,  I 
wasn't  frightened  when  Lord  John  .  .  .  kissed  me.  I 
screamed  because  I  was  surprised,  and  I'm  sorry  I 
screamed. 

SARAH.     [Quietly  to  ann.]    My  dear  Ann,  you're  a  fool. 

ANN.     [Quietly  to  sarah.]    I  will  speak  sometimes. 

SARAH.     Sit  down  again. 

Again  an   uncomfortable  silence,  a   ludicrous  air 
about  it  this  time. 

TATTON.  Now,  we'll  say  no  more  about  that  bet,  but  I 
was  right. 

LORD  JOHN.  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Tatton,  that  I  have  a 
temper  to  lose? 


ACT  i]  ANN   LEETE 


MR.  TATTON.  What  the  devil  does  that  matter  to  me, 
sir  .  .  .  my  lord  ? 

LORD  JOHN.    I  owe  you  a  saddle  and  bridle. 

MR.  TATTON.     You'U  oblige  me  by  taking  the  mare. 

LORD  JOHN.     We'll  discuss  it  to-morrow. 

MR.  TATTON.     Fve  said  all  I  have  to  say. 

GEORGE.     The  whole  matter's  ridiculous ! 

MR.  TATTON.  I  see  the  joke.  Good-night,  Lady  Cotte- 
sham,  and  I  kiss  your  hand. 

SARAH.     Good  morning,  Mr.  Tat. 

MR.  TATTON.     Good  momiug,  Miss  Ann,  I  .  .  . 

SARAH.  [Shielding  her  sister. 1  Good  morrow  is  appro- 
priate. 

MR.  TATTON.  I'll  go  by  the  fields.  [To  carnaby.]  Thank 
you  for  a  pleasant  evening.  Good  morrow,  George.  Do 
we  start  at  mid-day,  my  lord? 

LORD  JOHN.     Any  time  you  please. 

MR.  TATTON.  Not  at  all,  [He  hands  the  candlestick — of 
which  he  has  never  before  left  go — to  george.]  I  brought 
this  for  a  link.    Thank  you. 

CARNABY.  Mid-day  will  be  midnight  if  you  sleep  at  ^11 
now ;  make  it  two,  or  later. 

MR.  TATTON.  We  put  Up  at  Guildford.  I've  done  so 
before.    I  haven't  my  hat.    It's  a  day  and  a  half's  ride. 

TATTON  goes  quickly  up  the  other  steps  and  away. 
It  is  now  quite  light,  george  stands  by  the  steps, 
LORD  JOHN  is  on  One  of  the  seats,  carnaby  strolls 
round,  now  and  then  touching  the  rose  trees,  sarah 
and  ANN  are  on  the  other  seat. 

GEORGE.     Morning !    These  candles  still  smell. 

SARAH.     How  lively  one  feels  and  isn't ! 

CARNABY.     The  flowers  are  opening. 

ANN.     [In  a  whisper. 1     Couldn't  we  go  in? 

SARAH.     Never  run  away. 

ANN.     Everything  looks  so  odd. 


10  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  i 

SARAH.     What's  o'clock  .  .  .  my  lord? 

LORD  JOHN.     Half  after  four. 

ANN.     [To  SARAH.]     My  cycs  are  hot  behind. 

GEORGE.     What  ghosts  we  seem ! 

SARAH.     What  has  made  us  spend  such  a  night? 

CARNABY.     Ann  incited  me  to  it.     [He  takes  snuff.'] 

SARAH.  In  a  spirit  of  rebellion  against  good  country 
habits  .  .  . 

ANN.     [To  her  sister  again.]    Don't  talk  about  me. 

SARAH.     They  can  see  that  you're  whispering. 

CARNABY.  .  .  .  Informing  me  now  she  was  a  woman 
and  wanted  excitement. 

GEORGE.     There's  a  curse. 

CARNABY.     How  clsc  d'ye  conceive  life  for  women? 

SARAH.  George  is  naturally  cruel.  Excitement's  our 
education.    Please  vary  it,  though. 

CARNABY.  I  have  always  held  that  to  colour  in  the 
world-picture  is  the  greatest  privilege  of  the  husband. 
Sarah. 

SARAH.     [Not  leaving  ann's  side.]    Yes,  Papa. 

CARNABY.  Sarah,  when  Sir  Charles  leaves  Brighton  .  .  . 
SARAH  rises,  but  will  not  move  further. 

CARNABY.     [Sweetly  threatening.]   Shall  I  come  to  you  ? 
But  she  goes  to  him  now. 

CARNABY.     By  a  gossip  letter  from  town  .  .  . 

SARAH.     [Tensely.]     What  is  it? 

CARNAEY.  You  mentioned  to  me  something  of  his  visit- 
ing Naples. 

SARAH.     Very  well.    I  detest  Italy. 

CARNABY.     Let's  havc  George's  opinion. 
He  leads  her  towards  george. 

GEORGE.     Yes  ? 

CARNABY.     Upon  Naplcs. 

GEORGE.     I  remember  Naples. 

CARNABY.     Sarah,  admire  those  roses. 


ACT  i]  ANN    LEETE  11 

SARAH.     [Cynically  echoing  her  father. '\      Let's  have 
George's  opinion. 

Now  CARNABY  has  drawn  them  both  away,  upon  the 
terrace,  and,  the  coast  being  clear,  lord  john  walks 
towards  ann,  who  looks  at  him  very  scaredly. 

CARNABY.     Emblem  of  secrecy  among  the  ancients. 

SARAH.     Look  at  this  heavy  head,  won't  it  snap  off? 
The  three  move  out  of  sight. 

LORD  JOHN.     I'm  sober  now. 

ANN.    I'm  not. 

LORD  JOHN.    Uncompromising  young  lady. 

ANN.     And,  excuse  me,  I  don't  want  to  .  .  .  play. 

LORD  JOHN.     Don't  you  wish  me  to  apologise  quietly,  to 
you? 

ANN.     Good  manners  are  all  mockery,  I'm  sure. 

LORD  JOHN.     I'm  very  much  afraid  you're  a  cynic. 

ANN.     I'm  not  trying  to  be  clever. 

LORD  JOHN.     Do  I  tease  you? 

ANN.     Do  I  amuse  you? 

LORD  JOHN.     How  dare  I  say  so? 

ANN.     [After  a  moment.']    I  was  not  frightened. 

LORD  JOHN.     You  kisscd  me  back. 

ANN.     Not  on  purpose.    What  do  two  people  mean  by 
behaving  so  ...  in  the  dark? 

LORD  JOHN.     I  am  exceedingly  sorry  that  I  hurt  your 
feelings. 

ANN.     Thank  you,  I  Hke  to  feel. 

LORD  JOHN.     And  you  must  forgive  me. 

ANN.     Tell  me,  why  did  you  do  it? 

LORD  JOHN.    Honestly,  I  don't  know.     I  should  do  it 
again. 

ANN.     That's  not  quite  true,  is  it? 

LORD  JOHN.     I  think  so. 

ANN.     What  does  it  matter  at  all ! 

LORD  JOHN.     Nothing. 


1«  THE  MARRYING  DF  [act  i 

GEORGE_,  SARAH   Qftd  then  CARNABY   tHove  ifito  Sight 
and  along  the  terrace,    lord  john  turns  to  them. 
LORD  JOHN.     Has  this  place  been  long  in  your  family, 
Mr.  Leete? 

CARNABY.  Markswayde  my  wife  brought  us,  through 
the  Peters's  .  .  .  old  Chiltern  people  .  .  .  connections  of 
yours,  of  course.    There  is  no  entail. 

LORD  JOHN  walks  hock  to  ANN. 

SARAH.  George,  you  assume  this  republicanism  as  you 
would — no,  would  not — a  coat  of  latest  cut. 

CARNABY.     Never  argue  with  him  .  .  .  persist. 

SARAH.    So  does  he. 

The  three  pass  along  the  terrace. 

ANN.     \To  LORD  JOHN.]    Will  you  sit  down? 

LORD  JOHN.  It's  not  worth  while.  Do  you  know  I  must 
be  quite  twice  your  age? 

ANN.    A  doubled  responsibility,  my  lord. 

LORD  JOHN.     I  suppose  it  is. 

ANN.  I  don't  say  so.  That's  a  phrase  from  a  book  .  .  . 
sounded  well. 

LORD  JOHN.    My  dear  Miss  Ann  .  .  .  [He  stops.'] 

ANN.     Go  on  being  polite. 

LORD  JOHN.     If  you'll  keep  your  head  turned  away. 

ANN.     Why  must  I? 

LORD  JOHN.  There's  lightning  in  the  glances  of  your  eye. 

ANN.     Do  use  vulgar  words  to  me. 

LORD  JOHN.  [With  a  sudden  fatherly  kindness.']  Go  to 
bed  .  .  .  you're  dead  tired.  And  good-bye  .  .  .  I'll  be 
gone  before  you  wake. 

ANN.     Good-bye. 

She  shakes  hands  with  him,  then  walks  towards  her 
father,  who  is  coming  down  the  steps. 

ANN.     Papa,  don't  my  roses  want  looking  to? 

CARNABY.     [Pats  her  cheek.]    These? 

ANN.    Those. 


ACT  i]  ANN   LEETE  13 

CARNABY.  Abud  IS  Under  your  thumb,  horticulturally 
speaking. 

ANN.     Where's  Sally? 

She  goes  on  to  sarah,  who  is  standing  with  george 
at  the  top  of  the  steps,  carnaby  looks  lord  john 
up  and  down. 

LORD  JOHN.  [Dusting  his  shoulder."]  This  cursed  powder ! 

CARNABY.  Do  wc  respcct  innocence  enough  .  .  .  any 
of  us? 

GEORGE  comes  down  the  steps  and  joins  them. 

GEORGE.  Respectable  politics  will  henceforth  be  useless 
to  me. 

CARNABY.  My  lord,  was  his  Grace  satisfied  with  the 
young  man's  work  abroad,  or  was  he  not? 

LORD  JOHN.     My  father  used  to  curse  everyone. 

CARNABY.     That's  a  mere  Downing  Street  custom. 

LORD  JOHN.  And  I  seem  to  remember  that  a  letter  of 
yours  from  .  .  .  where  were  you  in  those  days  ? 

GEORGE.     Paris  .  .  .  Naples  .  .  .  Vienna. 

LORD  JOHN.     One  place  .  .  .  once  lightened  a  fit  of  gout. 

CARNABY.  George,  you  have  in  you  the  makings  of  a 
minister. 

GEORGE.      No. 

CARNABY.     Remember  the  Age  tends  to  the  disreputable. 
GEORGE  moves  away,  sarah  moves  towards  them. 

CARNABY.  George  is  something  of  a  genius,  stuffed  with 
theories  and  possessed  of  a  curious  conscience.  But  I  am 
fortunate  in  my  children. 

LORD  JOHN.    All  the  world  knows  it. 

CARNABY.  [To  SARAH.]  It's  lucky  that  yours  was  a  love 
match,  too.    I  admire  you.    Ann  is  *to  come,'  so  to  speak. 

SARAH.     [To  LORD  JOHN.]    Wcrc  you  discussing  affairs? 

LORD  JOHN.      Not  I. 

GEORGE.    Ann. 
ANN.    Yes,  George, 


14!  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  i 

She  goes  to  him;  they  stroll  together  up  the  steps 
and  along  the  terrace. 

SARAH.     I'm  desperately  fagged. 

LORD  JOHN.    {Politely.']    A  seat. 

SARAH.    Also  tired  of  sitting. 

CARNABY.    Let's  have  the  Brighton  news,  Carp. 

LORD  JOHN.     If  there's  any. 

CARNABY.  Probably  I  still  command  abuse.  Even  my 
son-in-law  must,  by  courtesy,  join  in  the  cry  ...  ah,  poor 
duty-torn  Sarah !  You  can  spread  abroad  that  I  am  as  a 
green  bay  tree. 

CARNABY  paces  slowly  away  from  them. 

LORD  JOHN.     Your  father's  making  a  mistake. 

SARAH.     D'you  think  so? 

LORD  JOHN.     He's  played  the  game  once. 

SARAH.  I  was  not  then  in  the  knowledge  of  things  when 
he  left  you. 

LORD  JOHN.     We  remember  it. 

SARAH.    I  should  like  to  hear  it. 

LORD  JOHN.     I  have  avoided  this  subject. 

SARAH.     With  him,  yes. 

LORD  JOHN.  Oh!  .  .  .  why  did  I  desert  the  army  for 
politics  ? 

SARAH.     Better  fighting. 

LORD  JOHN.  It  sat  so  nobly  upon  him  ...  the  leaving 
us  for  conscience  sake  when  we  were  strongly  in  power. 
Strange  that  six  months  later  we  should  be  turned  out. 

SARAH.     Papa  was  lucky. 

LORD  JOHN.     But  this  sccond  time  .  .  .  ? 

SARAH.  Listen.  This  is  very  much  a  private  quarrel 
with  Mr.  Pitt,  who  hates  Papa  .  .  .  gets  rid  of  him. 

LORD  JOHN.     Shall  I  betray  a  confidence? 

SARAH.     Better  not. 

LORD  JOHN.     My  father  advised  me  to  this  visit. 

SARAH.    Your  useful  visit.  More  than  kind  of  his  Grace. 


ACT  i]  ANN   LEETE  1^ 

LORD  JOHN.  Yes  .  .  .  there's  been  a  paragraph  in  the 
"Morning  Chronicle,"  'The  Whigs  woo  Mr.  Carnaby 
Leete.' 

SARAH,     We  saw  to  it. 

LORD  JOHN.  My  poor  father  seems  anxious  to  discover 
whether  the  Leete  episode  will  repeat  itself  entirely.  He 
is  chronically  unhappy  in  opposition.  Are  your  husband 
and  his  colleagues  trembling  in  their  seats  ? 

SARAH.     I  can't  say. 

LORD  JOHN.     PoHtics  is  a  game  for  clever  children,  and 
women  and  fools.    Will  you  take  a  word  of  warning  from 
a  soldier?    Your  father  is  past  his  prime. 
CARNABY  paces  back  towards  them. 

CARNABY.  I'm  getting  to  be  old  for  these  all-night  sit- 
tings.   I  must  be  writing  to  your  busy  brother. 

LORD  JOHN.     Arthur?  ...  is  at  his  home. 

SARAH.    Pleasantly  sounding  phrase. 

CARNABY.    His  Grace  deserted? 

SARAH.     Quite  secretaryless ! 

LORD  JOHN.  Lady  Arthur  lately  has  been  brought  to 
bed.    I  heard  yesterday. 

SARAH.  The  seventh,  is  it  not?  Children  require  living 
up  to.    My  congratulations. 

LORD  JOHN.     Won't  you  write  them? 

SARAH.     We  are  not  intimate. 

LORD  JOHN.    A  good  womau. 

SARAH.     Evidently.    Where's  Ann?    We'll  go  in. 

LORD  JOHN.     You're  a  mother  to  your  sister. 

SARAH.     Not  L 

CARNABY.  My  wife  went  her  ways  into  the  next  world; 
Sarah  hers  into  this;  and  our  little  Ann  was  left  with  a 
most  admirable  governess.  One  must  never  reproach  cir- 
cumstances.   Man  educates  woman  in  his  own  good  time. 

LORD  JOHN.  I  suppose  shc,  or  any  young  girl,  is  all 
heart. 


16  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  i 

CARNABY.  What  is  it  that  you  call  heart  .  .  .  senti- 
mentally speaking? 

SARAH.     Any  bud  in  the  morning. 

LORD  JOHN.  That  man  Tatton's  jokes  are  in  shocking 
taste. 

CARNABY.    Tatton  is  honest. 

LORD  JOHN.     I'm  much  to  blame  for  having  won  that  bet. 

CARNABY.     Say  no  more. 

LORD  JOHN.     What  can  Miss  Ann  think  of  me? 

SARAH.     Don't  ask  her. 

* 

CARNABY.  Innocency's  opinions  are  invariably  enter- 
taining. 

LORD  JOHN.  Am  I  the  first  .  .  .  ?  I  really  beg  your 
pardon. 

GEORGE  and  ANN  come  downJhe  steps  together. 
CARNABY.     Ann,  what  do  you  think  .  .  .  that  is  to  say — 
and  answer  me  truthfully  .  .  .  what  at  this  moment  is 
your  inclination  of  mind  towards  my  lord  here? 
ANN.     I  suppose  I  love  him. 
LORD  JOHN.     I  hope  not. 
ANN.     I  suppose  I  love  you. 

CARNABY.     No  .  .  no  .  .  uo  .  .  no  .  .  HO  .  .  no  .  ,  na, 
SARAH.     Hush,  dear. 

ANN.  I'm  afraid.  Papa,  there's  something  very  ill-bred 
in  me. 

DoTJim  the  steps,  and  into  the  midst  of  'them,  comes 
JOHN  ABUD,  carrying  his  tools,  among  other  things 
a  twist  of  bass.    A  young  gardener,  honest,  clean 
and  common. 
ABUD.     [To  CARNABY.]    I  ask  pardou,  sir. 
CARNABY.     So  early,  Abud!  .  .  .  this  is  your  territory. 
So  late  .  .  .  Bed. 

ANN  starts  away  up  the  steps jsarab.  is  following  her, 
LORD  JOHN.    Good-bye,  Lady  Cottesham, 


ACT  i]  ANN   LEETE  17 

At  this  ANN  stops  for  a  moment,  but  then  goes 
straight  on. 

SARAH.    A  pleasant  journey. 
SARAH  departs,  too. 

GEORGE.     [Stretching  himself. 1    I'm  roused. 

CARNABY.  [To  ABUD.]  Lcavc  your  tools  here  for  a  few 
moments. 

ABUD.     I  will,  sir. 

ABUD  leaves  them,  going  along  the  terrace  and  out 
of  sight. 

CARNABY.     My  head  is  hot.    Pardon  me. 

CARNABY  is  Sitting  on  the  fountain  rim;  he  dips  his 
handkerchief  in  the  water,  and  wrings  it;  then  takes 
off  his  wig  and  hinds  the  damp  handkerchief  round 
his  head. 

CARNABY.  Wigs  are  most  comfortable  and  old  fashioned 
.  .  .  unless  you  choose  to  be  a  cropped  republican  like  my 
son. 

GEORGE.     Nature ! 

CARNABY.     Nature  grows  a  beard,  sir. 

LORD  JOHN.     I've  seen  Turks. 

CARNABY.     Horrible  .  .  .  horrible !     Sit  down,  Carp. 
LORD  JOHN  sits  on  the  fountain  rim,  george  begins 
to  pace  restlessly;  he  has  been  nursing  the  candle- 
stick ever  since  tatton  handed  it  to  him. 

CARNABY.  George,  you  look  damned  ridiculous  strutting 
arm-in-arm  with  that  candlestick. 

GEORGE.     I  am  ridiculous. 

CARNABY.  If  you're  cogitating  over  your  wife  and  her 
expectations  .  .  . 

GEORGE  paces  up  the  steps  and  away.  There  is  a 
pause. 

CARNABY.     D'ye  tell  stories  .  .  .  good  ones? 

LORD  JOHN.     Sometimes. 

CARNABY.    There'll  be  this. 


18  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  i 

LORD  JOHN.     I  shan't. 

CARNABY.  Say  no  more.  If  I  may  so  express  myself. 
Carp,  you  have  been  taking  us  for  granted. 

LORD  JOHN.     How  wide  awake  you  are!     I'm  not. 

CARNABY.  My  head's  cool.  Shall  I  describe  your  con- 
duct as  an  unpremeditated  insult? 

LORD  JOHN.     Don't  think  anything  of  the  sort. 

CARNABY.     There  speaks  your  kind  heart. 

LORD  JOHN.    Are  you  trying  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  me? 

CARNABY.     As  may  be. 

LORD  JOHN.      Why? 

CARNABY.     For  the  sake  of  appearances. 

LORD  JOHN.     Damn  all  appearances. 

CARNABY.  Now  I'll  losc  my  temper.  Sir,  you  have  com- 
promised my  daughter. 

LORD  JOHN.     Nonsense! 

CARNABY.     Villain!     What's  your  next  move? 

For  a  moment  lord  joii^*sits  with  knit  brows. 

LORD  JOHN.     ^Brutally.']     Mr.  Leete,  your  name  stinks. 

CARNABY.     My  point  of  dis-ad-vantage ! 

LORD  JOHN.  {^Apologising.']  Please  say  what  you  like. 
I  might  have  put  my  remark  better. 

CARNABY.  I  think  not;  the  homely  Saxon  phrase  is  our 
literary  dagger.  Princelike,  you  ride  away  from  Marks- 
wayde.  Can  I  trust  you  not  to  stab  a  socially  sick  man? 
Why,  it's  a  duty  you  owe  to  society  ...  to  weed  out  .  .  . 
us. 

LORD  JOHN.     I'm  not  a  coward.    How? 

CARNABY.  A  little  laughter  ...  in  your  exuberance  of 
health. 

LORD  JOHN.    You  may  trust  me  not  to  tell  tales. 

CARNABY.     Of  what  .  .  .  of  whom  ? 

LORD  JOHN.     Of  here. 

CARNABY.    And  what  is  there  to  tell  of  here? 

LORD  JOHN.     Nothing. 


ACT 


i]  ANN   LEETE  19 


CARNABY.  But  Iiow  youF  promisc  betrays  a  capacity  for 
good-natured  invention ! 

LORD  JOHN.     If  I  lie,  call  me  out. 

CARNABY.  I  don't  deal  in  sentiment.  I  can't  afford  to 
be  talked  about  otherwise  than  as  I  choose  to  be.  Already 
the  Aunt  Sally  of  the  hour;  having  under  pressure  of 
circumstances  resigned  my  office;  dating  my  letters  from 
the  borders  of  the  Chiltern  Hundreds  ...  I  am  a  poor 
politician,  sir,  and  I  must  live. 

LORD  JOHN.  I  can't  see  that  your  family's  infected  .  .  . 
affected. 

CARNABY.  With  a  penniless  girl  you  really  should  have 
been  more  circumspect. 

LORD  JOHN.     I  might  ask  to  marry  her. 

CARNABY.     My  lord! 

In  the  pause  that  ensues  he  takes  up  the  twist  of 
bass  to  play  with. 

LORD  JOHN.     What  should  you  say  to  that? 

CARNABY.     The  silly  child  supposed  she  loved  you. 

LORD  JOHN.     Yes. 

CARNABY.     Is  it  a  match  ? 

LORD  JOHN.  [Full  in  the  other's  face.']  What  about  the 
appearances  of  black-mail? 

CARNABY.  [Compressing  his  thin  lips.]  Do  you  care 
for  my  daughter? 

LORD  JOHN.     I  could  ...  at  a  pinch. 

CARNABY.     Now,  my  lord,  you  are  insolent. 

LORD  JOHN.     Is  this  whcn  we  quarrel? 

CARNABY.     I  think  I'll  challenge  you. 

LORD  JOHN.     That  will  look  well. 

CARNABY.  You'll  valuc  that  kiss  when  you've  paid  for 
it.  Kindly  choose  Tatton  as  your  second.  I  want  his 
tongue  to  wag  both  ways. 

LORD  JOHN.     I  was  forgetting  how  it  all  began. 

CARNABY.    George  will  serve  me  .  .  .  protesting.     His 


so  THE  MARRYING  OF  [act  i 

principles  are  vile,  but  he  has  the  education  of  a  gentle- 
man. Swords  or  .  .  .  ?  Swords.  And  at  noon  shall  we 
say?  There's  shade  behind  a  certain  barn,  midway  be- 
tween this  and  Tatton's. 

LORD  JOHN.     [Not  taking  him  seriously  yet."]     What  if 
we  both  die  horridly? 

CARNABY.     You  are  at  liberty  to  make  me  a  written 
apology. 

LORD  JOHN.     A  joke's  a  joke. 

CARNABY  deliberately  strikes  him  in  the  face  with 
the  twist  of  bass. 
LORD  JOHN.     That's  enough. 

CARNABY.     [In  explanatory  apology.']     My  friend,  you 
are  so  obtuse.    Abud! 

LORD  JOHN.     Mr.  Leete,  are  you  serious? 
CARNABY.     Perfectly  serious.     Let's  go  to  bed.     Abud, 
you  can  get  to  your  work. 

Wig  in  hand,  mr.  leete  courteously  conducts  his 
guest  towards  the  house,  abud  returns  to  his  tools 
and  his  morning's  work. 


ACT  III  ANN   LEETE  ^1 


THE  SECOND  ACT 

Shortly  after  mid-day,  while  the  sun  beats  strongly 
upon  the  terrace,  abud  is  working  dexterously  at 
the  rose  trees,  dr.  remnant  comes  down  the  steps, 
hatted,  and  carrying  a  stick  and  a  hook.  He  is  an 
elderly  man,  with  a  kind  manner;  type  of  the  eight- 
eenth century  casuistical  parson.  On  his  way  he 
stops  to  say  a  word  to  the  gardener. 

DR.  rem:nant.     Will  it  rain  before  nightfall? 

abud.     About  then,  sir,  I  should  say. 

Down  the  other  steps  comes  mrs.  opie,  a  prim,  de- 
corous, hut  well  bred  and  unobjectionable  woman. 
She  is  followed  by  ann. 

MRS.  opiE.     A  good  morning  to  you.  Parson. 

DR.  REMNANT.     And  to  you,  Mrs.  Opie,  and  to  Miss  Ann. 

ANN.     Good  morning.  Dr.  Remnant.    [To  abud.]    Have 
you  been  here  ever  since  .  .  .  ? 

ABUD.     Fve  had  dinner.  Miss. 

ABUD^s  work  takes  him  gradually  out  of  sight. 

MRS.  OPIE.    We  are  but  just  breakfasted. 

DR.  REMNANT.     I  surmisc  dissipation. 

ANN.     [To  MRS.  OPIE.]     Thank  you  for  waiting  five 
hours. 

MRS.  OPIE.     It  is  my  rule  to  breakfast  with  you. 

DR.  REMNANT.     [Exhibiting  the  book.'\     I  am  come  to 
return,  and  to  borrow. 

ANN.     Show  me. 

DR.  REMNANT.     Ballads  by  Robert  Burns. 

ANN.     [Taking  iV.]    I'll  put  it  back. 


^ 


22  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  ii 

MRS.  OPiE.     [Taking  it  from  her.']     I've  never  heard  of 
him. 

DR.  REMNANT.     Oh,  ma'am,  a  very  vulgar  poet! 

GEORGE  LEETE  contes  quickly  down  the  steps, 
GEORGE.     [To  REMNANT.]    How  are  you? 
DR.  REMNANT.     Yours,  sir. 
GEORGE.     Ann. 

ANN.     Good  morning,  George. 
GEORGE.     Did  you  sleep  v^^ell? 
ANN.     I  always  do  .  .  .  but  I  dreamt. 
GEORGE.     I  must  sit  down   for  a  minute.     [Nodding."] 
Mrs.  Opie. 

MRS.  OPIE.     I  wish  you  a  good  morning,  sir. 
GEORGE.     [To  ANN.]    Don't  look  so  solemn. 

LADY  coTTESHAM  comes  quickly  to  the  top  of  the 

steps, 
SARAH.     Is  Papa  badly  hurt? 
ANN.     [Jumping  up.]    Oh,  what  has  happened? 
GEORGE.     Not  badly. 
SARAH.     He  won't  see  me. 

His  three  children  look  at  each  other. 
DR.  REMNANT.     [Toctfully.]     May  I  go  my  ways  to  the 
library  ? 

SARAH.     Please  do,  Doctor  Remnant. 
DR.  REMNANT.     I  flatly  contradicted  all  that  was  being 
said  in  the  village. 

SARAH.     Thoughtful  of  you. 

DR.  REMNANT.     But  tell  me  nothing. 

DR.  REMNANT  bows  formally  and  goes,    george  is 

about  to  speak  when  sarah,  with  a  look  at  mrs. 

OPIE,  says  .  .  . 
SARAH.     George,  hold  your  tongue. 
MRS.  OPIE.     [With  much  hauteur.]    I  am  in  the  way. 

At  this  moment  dim  muck,  an  old  but  unbenevolent- 

looking  butler,  comes  to  the  top  of  the  steps. 


ACT  n]  ANN   LEETE 


DiMMUCK.    The  master  wants  Mrs.  Opie. 
MRS.  OPIE.     Thank  you. 
GEORGE.    Your  triumph! 

MRS.  OPIE  is  departing,  radiant. 
DIMMUCK.    How  was  I  to  know  you  was  in  the  garden? 
MRS.  OPIE.     I  am  sorry  to  have  put  you  to  the  trouble  of 
a  search,  Mr.  Dimmuck. 

DIMMUCK.    He's  in  his  room. 

And  he  follows  her  towards  the  house. 
GEORGE.     Carp  fought  with  him  at  twelve  o'clock. 

The  other  two  cannot  speak  from  amazement. 

SARAH.      No ! 

GEORGE.  Why,  they  didn't  tell  me,  and  I  didn't  ask. 
Carp  was  laughing.    Tatton  chuckled  .  .  .  afterwards. 

SARAH.    What  had  he  to  do? 

GEORGE.     Carp's  second. 

SARAH.    Unaccountable  children! 

GEORGE.  Feather  parade  .  .  .  throw  in  .  .  .  parry  quarte : 
over  the  arm  .  .  .  put  by:  feint  .  .  .  flanconade  and 
through  his  arm  .  .  .  damned  easy.  The  father  didn't 
wince  or  say  a  word,  I  boimd  it  up  .  .  .  the  sight  of  blood 
makes  me  sick. 

After  a  moment  sarah  turns  to  ann. 

SARAH.     Yes,  and  you've  been  a  silly  child. 

GEORGE.  Ah,  give  me  a  woman's  guess  and  the  most 
unlikely  reason  to  account  for  anything ! 

ANN.  I  hate  that  man.  I'm  glad  Papa's  not  hurt.  What 
about  a  surgeon? 

GEORGE.  No,  you  shall  kiss  the  place  well,  and  there'll 
be  poetic  justice  done. 

SARAH.     How  did  you  all  part? 

GEORGE.     With  bows  and  without  a  word. 

SARAH.     Coming  home  with  him? 

GEORGE.     Not  a  word. 

SARAH.    Papa's  very  clever ;  but  I'm  puzzled. 


M  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  n 

GEORGE.     Something  will  happen  next,  no  doubt. 
^  ANN.     Isn't  this  done  with? 

SARAH.     So  it  seems. 

ANN.  I  should  like  to  be  told  just  what  the  game  has 
been. 

GEORGE.    Bravo,  Ann. 

ANN.    Tell  me  the  rules  .  .  .  for  next  time. 

SARAH.  It  would  have  been  most  advantageous  for  us 
to  have  formed  an  alliance  with  Lord  John  Carp,  who 
stood  here  for  his  father  and  his  father's  party  .  .  .  now 
in  opposition. 

GEORGE.  Look  upon  yourself — not  too  seriously — ^Ann, 
as  the  instrument  of  political  destiny. 

ANN.  Tm  afraid  I  take  in  fresh  ideas  very  slowly. 
Why  has  Papa  given  up  the  Stamp  Office? 

SARAH.    His  colleagues  wouldn't  support  him. 

ANN.     Why  was  that? 

SARAH.     They  disapproved  of  what  he  did. 

ANN.     Did  he  do  right  .  .  .  giving  it  up  ? 

SARAH.    Yes. 

GEORGE.  We  hope  so.  Time  will  tell.  An  irreverent 
quipster  once  named  him  Carnaby  Leech. 

SARAH.     I  know. 

GEORGE.  I  wonder  if  his  true  enemies  think  him  wise  to 
have  dropped  off  the  Stamp  Office  ? 

ANN.    Has  he  quarrelled  with  Sir  Charles? 

SARAH.     Politically. 

ANN.    Isn't  that  awkward  for  you? 

SARAH.     Not  a  bit. 

GEORGE.  Hear  a  statement  that  includes  our  lives. 
Markswayde  goes  at  his  death.  .  .  .  see  reversionary  mort- 
gage. The  income's  an  annuity  now.  The  cash  in  the 
house  will  be  ours.    The  debts  are  paid  ...  at  last. 

ANN.    And  there  remains  me. 

GEORGE.    Bad  grammar.     Meanwhile  our  father  is  a 


ACT  ii]  ANN  LEETE  ^5 

tongue,  which  is  worth  buying,  but  I  don't  think  he  ought 
to  go  over  to  the  enemy  .  .  .  for  the  second  time. 

SARAH.    One  party  is  as  good  as  another;  each  works 
for  the  same  end,  I  should  hope. 

GEORGE.    I  won't  argue  about  it. 

ANN.    I  suppose  that  a  woman's  profession  is  marriage. 

GE0RG£.    My  lord  has  departed. 

ANN.    There'll  be  others  to  come.     I'm  not  afraid  of 
being  married. 

SARAH.    What  did  Papa  want  Mrs.  Opie  for? 

ANN.     There'll  be  a  great  many  things  I  shall  want  to 
know  about  men  now. 

GEORGE.     Wisdom  cometh  with  sorrow  ...  oh,  my  sister. 

SARAH.    I  believe  you  two  are  both  about  as  selfish  as 
you  can  be. 

GEORGE.    I  am  an  egotist  .  .  .  with  attachments. 

ANN.    Make  use  of  me. 

GEORGE.    Ann,  you  marry — when  you  marry — to  please 
yourself. 

ANN.    There's  much  in  life  that  I  don't  like,  Sally. 

SARAH.    There's  much  more  that  you  will. 

GEORGE.    I  think  we  three  have  never  talked  together 
before. 

ABUD,  who  has  been  in  sight  on  the  terrace  for  a 
few  moments,  now  comes  down  the  steps. 

ABUD.    May  I  make  so  bold,  sir,  as  to  ask  how  is  Mrs. 
George  Leete? 

GEORGE.    She  was  well  when  I  last  heard. 

ABUD.     Thank  you,  sir. 

And  he  returns  to  his  work. 

ANN.     I  wonder  will  it  be  a  boy  or  a  girl? 

GEORGE.    Poor  weak  woman. 

SARAH.     Be  grateful  to  her. 

ANN.     A  baby  is  a  wonderful  thing. 

SARAH.    Babyhood  in  the  abstract  .  .  .  beautiful. 


^e  THE  MARRYING  OF  [act  n 

ANN.     Even  kittens  .  .  . 

She  stops,  and  then  in  rather  childish  embarrass- 
ment, moves  away  from  them. 

SARAH.     Don't  shudder,  George. 

GEORGE.     I  have  no  wish  to  be  a  father.    Why? 

SARAH.     It's  a  vulgar  responsibility. 

GEORGE.     My  wayside  flower! 

SARAH.     Why  pick  it? 

GEORGE.     Sarah,  I  love  my  wife. 

SARAH.     That's  easily  said. 

GEORGE.     She  should  be  here. 

SARAH.     George,  you  married  to  please  yourself. 

GEORGE.     By  custom  her  rank  is  my  own. 

SARAH.     Does  she  still  drop  her  aitches? 

GEORGE.     Dolly  .  .  . 

SARAH.     Pretty  name. 

GEORGE.     Dolly  aspires  to  be  one  of  us. 

SARAH.     Child-bearing  makes  these  women  blowzy. 

GEORGE.     Oh  heaven ! 

ANN.  [Calling  to  abud  on  the  terrace.']  Finish  to-day, 
Abud.    If  it  rains  .  .  . 

She  stops,  seeing  mr.  tetgeen  standing  at  the  top  of 
the  steps  leading  from  the  house.  This  is  an  in- 
tensely respectable,  selfcontained-looking  lawyer, 
but  a  man  of  the  world,  too. 

MR.  tetgeen.    Lady  Cottesham. 

SARAH.     Sir? 

MR.  tetgeen.     My  name  is  Tetgeen. 

SARAH.     Mr.  Tetgeen.    How  do  you  do? 

MR.  TETGEEN.  The  household  appeared  to  be  in  some 
confusion,  and  I  took  the  liberty  to  be  my  own  messenger. 
I  am  anxious  to  speak  with  you. 

SARAH.    Ann,  dear,  ask  if  Papa  will  see  you  now. 
DiMMUCK  appears. 

DiMMUCK.    The  master  wants  you,  Miss  Ann. 


\ 


ACT  n]  ANN   LEETE  «7 

SARAH.     Ask  Papa  if  he'll  see  me  soon. 
ANN  goes  towards  the  house. 

SARAH.  Dimmuck,  Mr.  Tetgeen  has  been  left  to  find 
his  own  way  here. 

DIMMUCK.     I  couldn't  help  it,  my  lady. 
And  he  follows  ann. 

SARAH.    Our  father  is  confined  to  his  room. 

GEORGE.     By  your  leave. 

Then  george  takes  himself  off  up  the  steps,  and  out 
of  sight.  The  old  lawyer  hows  to  lady  cottesham, 
who  regards  him  steadily. 

MR.  tetgeen.    From  Sir  Charles  ...  a  talking  machine. 

SARAH.     Please  sit. 

He  sits  carefully  upon  the  rim  of  the  fountain,  she 
upon  the  seat  opposite. 

SARAH.  [Glancing  over  her  shoulder.']  Will  you  talk 
nonsense  until  the  gardener  is  out  of  hearing?  He  is  on 
his  way  away.    You  have  had  a  tiring  journey? 

MR.  tetgeen.  Thank  you,  no  ...  by  the  night  coach 
to  Reading,  and  thence  I  have  walked. 

SARAH.     The  country  is  pretty,,  is  it  not? 

MR.  tetgeen.    It  compares  favorably  with  other  parts. 

SARAH.  Do  you  travel  much,  Mr.  Tetgeen?  He  has 
gone. 

MR.  tetgeen.  [Deliberately,  and  sharpening  his  tone 
ever  so  little.']  Sir  Charles  does  not  wish  to  petition  for  a 
divorce. 

SARAH.  [Controlling  even  her  sense  of  humor.]  I  have 
no  desire  to  jump  over  the  moon. 

MR.  TETGEEN.  His  scruplcs  are  religious.  The  case 
would  be  weak  upon  some  important  points,  and  there  has 
been  no  ptiblic  scandal  ...  at  the  worst,  very  little. 

SARAH.  My  good  manners  are,  I  trust,  irreproachable, 
and  you  may  tell  Sir  Charles  that  my  conscience  is  my  own. 

MR.  TETGEEN.    Your  husband's  in  the  matter  of  .  .  . 


28  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  ii 

SARAH.     Please  say  the  word. 

MR.  TETGEEN.     Pardon  me  .  .  .  not  upon  mere  suspicion. 

SARAH.  Now,  is  it  good  policy  to  suspect  what  is  in- 
capable of  proof? 

MR.  TETGEEN.  I  advisc  Sir  Charles  that,  should  you 
come  to  an  open  fight,  he  can  afford  to  lose. 

SARAH.     And  have  I  no  right  to  suspicions? 

MR.  TETGEEN.     Certainly.    Are  they  of  use  to  you? 

SARAH.  I  have  been  a  tolerant  wife,  expecting  tolera- 
tion. 

MR.  TETGEEN.  Sir  Charles  is  anxious  to  take  into  con- 
sideration any  complaints  you  may  have  to  make  against 
him. 

SARAH.     I  complain  if  he  complains  of  me. 

MR.  TETGEEN.     For  the  first  time,  I  think  .  .  .  formally. 

SARAH.    Why  not  have  come  to  me? 

MR.  TETGEEN.     Sir  Charles  is  busy. 

SARAH.  [Disguising  a  little  spasm  of  pain.l  Shall  we 
get  to  business  ? 

MR.  TETGEEN  fiow  tokcs  a  moment  to  find  his  phrase. 

MR.  TETGEEN.     I  don't  kuow  the  man's  name. 

SARAH.  This,  surely,  is  how  you  might  address  a  se- 
duced housemaid! 

MR.  TETGEEN.  But  Sir  Charlcs  and  he,  I  understand, 
have  talked  the  matter  over. 

The  shock  of  this  brings  sarah  to  her  feet,  white 
with  anger. 

SARAH.     Divorce  me. 

MR.  TETGEEN.     [Sharply."]    Is  there  ground  for  it? 

SARAH.  [With  a  magnificent  recovery  of  self  control.'] 
I  won't  tell  you  that. 

MR.  TETGEEN.  I  havc  Said  we  have  no  case  .  .  .  that 
is  to  say,  we  don't  want  one;  but  any  information  is  a 
weapon  in  store. 

SARAH,    You  did  quite  right  to  insult  me. 


ACT  II]  ANN  LEETE  29 

MR.  TETGEEN.    As  a  rulc,  I  dcspise  such  methods. 

SARAH.     It's  a  He  that  they  met  .  .  .  those  two  men? 

MR.  TETGEEN.     It  may  be. 

SARAH.     It  must  be. 

MR.  TETGEEN.    I  havc  Sir  Charles's  word. 

Now  he  takes  from  his  pocket  some  notes,  'putting 
on  his  spectacles  to  read  them, 

SARAH.    What's  this  ...  a  written  lecture? 

MR.  TETGEEN.  We  propose  .  .  .  first:  that  the  present 
complete  severance  of  conjugal  relations  shall  continue. 
Secondly:  that  Lady  Cottesham  shall  be  at  Hberty  to  re- 
move from  South  Audley  Street  and  Ringham  Castle  all 
personal  and  private  effects,  excepting  those  family  jewels 
which  have  merely  been  considered  her  property.  Thirdly : 
Lady  Cottesham  shall  undertake,  formally,  and  in  writing, 
not  to  molest — a  legal  term — Sir  Charles  Cottesham.  [Her 
handkerchief  has  dropped,  here  he  picks  it  up^  and  restores 
it  to  her.']    Allow  me,  my  lady. 

SARAH.     I  thank  you. 

MR.  TETGEEN.  [Continuing.']  Fourthly:  Lady  Cottes- 
ham shall  undertake  .  .  .  etc.  .  .  .  not  to  inhabit  or  fre- 
quent the  city  and  towns  of  London,  Brighthelmstone, 
Bath,  The  Tunbridge  Wells,  and  York.  Fifthly:  Sir 
Charles  Cottesham  will,  in  acknowledgement  of  the  main- 
tenance of  this  agreement,  allow  Lady  C.  the  sum  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  per  annum,  which  sum  he  con- 
siders sufficient  for  the  upkeep  of  a  small  genteel  establish- 
ment; use  of  the  house  known  as  Pater  House,  situate 
some  seventeen  miles  from  the  Manor  of  Barton-le-Street, 
Yorkshire;  coals  from  the  mine  adjoining;  and  from  the 
home  farm,  milk,  butter  and  eggs.  [Then  he  finds  a  fur- 
ther note.']    Lady  Cottesham  is  not  to  play  cards. 

SARAH.    I  am  a  little  fond  of  play. 

MR.  TETGEEN.     There  is  no  question  of  jointure. 

SARAH.    None.    Mr.  Tetgeen  ...  I  love  my  husband. 


so  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  ii 

MR.  TETGEEN.     My  lady  ...  I  will  mention  it. 

SARAH.  Such  a  humorous  answer  to  this.  No  .  .  . 
don't  What  is  important?  Bread  and  butter  .  .  .  and 
eggs.    Do  I  take  this? 

MR.  TETGEEN.     [Handing  her  the  paper.']     Please. 

SARAH.     [With  the  ghost  of  a  smile.']    I  take  it  badly. 

MR.  TETGEEN.  [Courteously  capping  her  jest.]  I  take 
my  leave. 

SARAH.  This  doesn't  call  for  serious  notice?  I've  done 
nothing  legal  by  accepting  it? 

MR.  TETGEEN.  There's  no  law  in  the  matter;  it's  one  of 
policy. 

SARAH.  I  might  bargain  for  a  bigger  income,  [mr. 
TETGEEN  hows.]    On  the  whole,  I'd  rather  be  divorced. 

MR.  TETGEEN.     Sir  Charles  detests  scandal. 

SARAH.     Besides,  there's  no  case  ...  is  there? 

MR.  TETGEEN.     Sir  Charlcs  congratulates  himself. 

SARAH.  Sir  Charles  had  best  not  bully  me  so  politely 
.  .  .  tell  him. 

MR.  TETGEEN.     My  lady ! 

SARAH.  I  will  not  discuss  this  impertinence.  Did  those 
two  men  meet  and  talk  .  .  .  chat  together?  What  d'you 
think  of  that? 

MR.  TETGEEN.  'Twas  vcry  practical.  I  know  that  the 
woman  is  somehow  the  outcast. 

SARAH.  A  bad  woman  ...  an  idle  woman !  But  I've 
tried  to  do  so  much  that  lay  to  my  hands  without  ever 
questioning  .  .  .  !  Thank  you,  I  don't  want  this  retailed 
to  my  husband.  You'll  take  a  glass  of  wine  before  you  go  ? 

MR.  TETGEEN.     Port  is  gratcful. 

She  takes  from  her  dress  two  sealed  letters. 

SARAH.  Will  you  give  that  to  Sir  Charles  ...  a  letter 
he  wrote  me  which  I  did  not  open.  This,  my  answer, 
which  I  did  not  send. 


ACT  n]  ANN    LEETE  31 

He  takes  the  one  letter  courteously,  the  other  she 
puts  hack. 

SARAH.     I'm  such  a  coward,  Mr.  Tetgeen. 

MR.  TETGEEN.     May  I  Say  how  sorry  .  .  .   ? 

SARAH.     Thank  you. 

MR.  TETGEEN.  And  let  me  apologise  for  having  ex- 
pressed one  opinion  of  my  own. 

SARAH.  He  wants  to  get  rid  of  me.  He's  a  bit  afraid 
of  me,  you  know,  because  I  fight  .  .  .  and  my  weapons 
are  all  my  own.     This'll  blow  over. 

MR.  TETGEEN.  [With  a  shokc  of  the  head.l  You  are  to 
take  this  offer  as  final. 

SARAH.     Beyond  this? 

MR.  TETGEEN.  As  I  hinted,  I  am  prepared  to  advise 
legal  measures. 

SARAH.     I  could  blow  it  over  .  .  .  but  I  won't,  perhaps. 
I  must  smile  at  my  husband's  consideration  in  suppressing, 
even  to  you  .  .  .  the  man's  name.     Butter  and  eggs  .  .  . 
and  milk.    I  should  grow  fat. 
ANN  appears  suddenly. 

ANN.  We  go  to  Brighton  to-morrow !  [^And  she  comes 
excitedly  6o  her  sister.'] 

SARAH.     Was  that  duel  a  stroke  of  genius? 

ANN.     All  sorts  of  things  are  to  happen. 

SARAH.  [Turning  from  her  to  mr.  tetgeen.]  And 
you'll  walk  as  far  as  Reading? 

MR.  TETGEEN.     Dear  me,  yes. 

SARAH.     [To  ANN.]    I'll  come  back. 

SARAH    takes  MR.   TETGEEN   tOWOrds  the  house.      ANN 

seats  herself.  After  a  moment  lord  john  carp,  his 
clothes  dusty  with  some  riding,  appears  from  the  oth- 
er quarter.    She  looks  up  to  find  him  gazing  at  her, 

LORD  JOHN.     Ann,  I've  ridden  back  to  see  you. 

ANN.  [After  a  moment.]  WeJre  coming  to  Brighton 
to-morrow. 


y 


32  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  u 

LORD  JOHN.      Good. 

ANN.     Papa's  not  dead. 

LORD  JOHN.     [With  equal  cheerfulnessJ]     That's  good. 

ANN.     And  he  said  we  should  be  seeing  more  of  you. 

LORD  JOHN.  Here  I  am.  I  love  you,  Ann.  [He  goes 
on  his  knees.~\ 

ANN.     D'you  want  to  marry  me  ? 

LORD  JOHN.     Yes. 

ANN.  Thank  you  very  much;  it'll  be  very  convenient 
for  us  all.    Won't  you  get  up  ? 

LORD  JOHN.    At  your  feet. 

ANN.     I  like  it. 

LORD  JOHN.     Give  me  your  hand. 

ANN.      No. 

LORD  JOHN.    You're  beautiful. 

ANN.     I  don't  think  so.    You  don't  think  so. 

LORD  JOHN.     I  do  think  so. 

ANN.     I  should  like  to  say  I  don't  love  you. 

LORD  JOHN.     Last  night  you  kissed  me. 

ANN.    Do  get  up,  please. 

LORD  JOHN.     As  you  wish. 
Now  he  sits  by  her. 

ANN.  Last  night  you  were  nobody  in  particular  .  .  . 
to  me.  ' 

LORD  JOHN.     I  love  you. 

ANN.     Please  don't;  I  can't  think  clearly. 

LORD  JOHN.     Look  at  me. 

ANN.  I'm  sure  I  don't  love  you,  because  you're  making 
me  feel  very  uncomfortable,  and  that  wouldn't  be  so, 

LORD  JOHN.     Then  we'll  think. 

ANN.  Papa  .  .  .  perhaps  you'd  rather  not  talk  about 
Papa. 

LORD  JOHN.     Give  yourself  to  me. 

ANN.     [Drawing  away  from  him.']    Four  words !  There 


ACT  n]  ANN   LEETE 


ought  to  be  more  in  such  a  sentence  .  .  .  it's  ridiculous. 
I  want  a  year  to  think  about  its  meaning.    Don't  speak. 

LORD  JOHN.    Papa  joins  our  party. 

ANN.     That's  what  we're  after  .  .  .  thank  you. 

LORD  JOHN.    I  loathe  politics. 

ANN.    Tell  me  something  against  them. 

LORD  JOHN.  In  my  opinion  your  father's  not  a  much 
bigger  blackguard — I  beg  your  pardon — than  the  rest  of  us. 

ANN.     .  .  .  Miserable  sinners. 

LORD  JOHN.    Your  father  turns  his  coat.     Well  .  .  .   ? 

ANN.    I  see  nothing  at  all  in  that. 

LORD  JOHN.    What's  right  and  what's  wrong? 

ANN.    Papa's  right  ...  for  the  present. 

ANN.    When  shall  we  be  married? 

LORD  JOHN.     To-morrow? 

ANN.  lStartled.'\  If  you  knew  that  it  isn't  easy  for  me 
to  be  practical  you  wouldn't  make  fun. 

LORD  JOHN.    Why  not  to-morrow? 

ANN.    Papa 

LORD  JOHN.    Papa  says  yes  .  .  suppose. 

ANN.  I'm  very  young  .  .  not  to  speak  of  clothes.  I 
must  have  lots  of  new  dresses. 

LORD  JOHN.    Ask  me  for  them. 

ANN.    Why  do  you  want  to  marry  me? 

LORD  JOHN.     I  love  you. 

ANN.    It  suddenly  occurs  to  me  that  sounds  unpleasant. 

LORD  JOHN.    I  love  you. 

ANN.    Out  of  place. 

LORD  JOHN.    I  love  you. 

ANN.    What  if  Papa  were  to  die? 

LORD  JOHN.     I  want  you. 

ANN.  I'm  nothing  .  .  I'm  nobody  .  .  I'm  part  of  my 
family. 

LORD  JOHN.    I  want  you. 

ANN.    Won't  you  please  forget  last  night? 


84J  THE  MARRYING  OF  [act  n 

LORD  JOHN.     I  want  you.    Look  straight  at  me. 
She  looks,  and  stays  fascinated. 

LORD  JOHN.    If  I  say  now  that  I  love  you 

ANN.    I  know  it. 

LORD  JOHN.    And  love  me? 

ANN.     I  suppose  so. 

LORD  JOHN.     Make  sure, 

ANN.     But  I  hate  you,  too  . .  I  know  that. 

LORD  JOHN.     Shall  I  kiss  you? 

ANN.     [Helplessly.']     Yes. 

He  kisses  her  full  on  the  lips. 

ANN.     I  can't  hate  you  enough. 

LORD  JOHN.     [Triumphantly.']    Speak  the  truth  now. 

ANN.     I  feel  very  degraded. 

LORD  JOHN.     Nonsense. 

ANN.  [Wretchedly.]  This  is  one  of  the  things  which 
don't  matter. 

LORD  JOHN.     Ain't  you  to  be  mine? 

ANN.  You  want  the  right  to  behave  like  that  as  well 
as  the  power. 

LORD  JOHN.     You  shall  command  me. 

ANN.     [With  a  poor  laugh.]   I  rather  like  this,  in  a  way. 

LORD  JOHN.    Little  coquette! 

ANN.     It  does  tickle  my  vanity. 

For  a  moment  he  sits  looking  at  her,  then  shakes 
himself  to  his  feet. 

LORD  JOHN.      Now  I  mUSt  gO. 

ANN.    Yes  .  .  I  want  to  think. 

LORD  JOHN.     For  Heaven's  sake  .  .  no! 

ANN.  I  came  this  morning  straight  to  where  we  were 
last  night. 

LORD  JOHN.  As  I  hung  about  the  garden  my  heart  was 
beating. 

ANN.    I  shall  like  you  better  when  you're  not  here. 

LORD  JOHN.    We're  to  meet  in  Brighton  ? 


ACT  n]  ANN  LEETE  35 

ANN.    I'm  afraid  so. 

LORD  JOHN.     Good-bye. 

ANN.     There's  just  a  silly  sort  of  attraction  between 
certain  people,  I  believe. 

LORD  JOHN.     Can  you  look  me  in  the  eyes  and  say  you 
don't  love  me? 

ANN.    If  I  looked  you  in  the  eyes  you'd  frighten  me 
again.    I  can  say  anything. 

LORD  JOHN.     You're  a  deep  child. 

GEORGE  LEETE  appears  on  the  terrace. 

GEORGE.     My  lord! 

LORD  JOHN.     [Cordially.']     My  dear  Leete. 

GEORGE.     No  .  .  I  am  not  surprised  to  see  you. 

ANN.     George,  things  are  happening. 

LORD  JOHN.     Shake  hands. 

GEORGE.    I  will  not. 

ANN.    Lord  John  asks  me  to  be  married  to  him.    Shake 
hands. 

GEORGE.    Why  did  you  fight  ? 

ANN.     Why  d  i  d  you  fight? 

LORD  JOHN.     [Shrugging.']    Your  father  struck  me. 

ANN.     Now  you've  hurt  him  .  .  that's  fair. 

Then  the  two  men  do  shake  hands,  not  heartily. 

GEORGE.     We've  trapped  you,  my  lord. 

LORD  JOHN.     I  know  what  I  want.    I  love  your  sister. 

ANN.     I  don't  like  you  .  .  but  if  you're  good  and  I'm 
good  we  shall  get  on. 

GEORGE.     Why  shouldn't  one  marry  politically? 

LORD  JOHN.     [In  ann's  ear.]    I  love  you. 

ANN.    No   . .  no   . .   no   . .  no   . .  no   . .    [Discovering 
in  this  an  echo  of  her  father,  she  stops  short.] 

GEORGE.    We're  a  cold-blooded  family. 

LORD  JOHN.    I  don't  think  so. 

C5S0RGE.    I  married  for  love. 


36  THE  MARRYING  OF  [act  n 

LORD  JOHN.  Who  doesn't?  But,  of  course,  there  should 
be  other  reasons. 

GEORGE.     You  won't  rcceive  my  wife. 
LORD  JOHN.     Here's  your  sister. 

LADY  coTTESHAM  comcs  froM  the  direction  of  the 

house. 
SARAH.     Back  again? 

LORD  JOHN.      You   SCC. 

From  the  other  side  appears  mr.  tatton. 

MR.  TATTON.  As  you  all  seem  to  be  here  I  don't  mind 
interrupting. 

GEORGE.     [Hailing  him.'\    Well  .  .  neighbour? 

MR.  TATTON.  Comc  .  .  come  .  .  what's  a  little  fighting 
more  or  less ! 

GEORGE.  Bravo,  English  sentiment  .  .  relieves  a  deal  of 
awkwardness. 

The  two  shake  hands. 

SARAH.  [Who  by  this  has  reached  lord  john.]  .  . 
And  back  so  soon  ? 

ANN.    Lord  John  asks  to  marry  me. 

lord  JOHN.     Yes. 

MR.  TATTON.     I  gucsscd  SO  .  .  givc  mc  a  bit  of  romance! 

SARAH.  [Stiavely.'}  This  is  perhaps  a  little  sudden,  my 
dear  Lord  John.     Papa  may  naturally  be  a  little  shocked. 

GEORGE.     Not  at  all,  Sarah. 

MR.  TATTON.     How's  the  wouud  ? 

GEORGE.     Not  serious  .  .  nothing's  serious. 

SARAH.     You  are  very  masterful,  wooing  sword  in  hand. 

ANN.  George  and  I  have  explained  to  Lord  John  that 
we  are  all  most  anxious  to  marry  me  to  him,  and  he 
doesn't  mind 

lord  JOHN.     Being  made  a  fool  of.    I  love 

ANN.     I  will  like  you. 

GEORGE.     Charming  cynicism,  my  dear  Sarah. 

MR.  TATTON.     Oh,  Lord ! 


ACT  ii]  ANN   LEETE  37 

ANN.     ITo  her  affianced.']     Good-bye  now. 

LORD  JOHN.     When  do  I  see  you? 

ANN.     Papa  says  soon. 

LORD  JOHN.  Very  soon,  please.  Tatton,  my  friend, 
Brighton's  no  nearer, 

MR.  TATTON.  Lady  Cottesham  .  .  Miss  Leete  .  .  I  kiss 
your  hands. 

LORD  JOHN.     [Ebulliently  clapping  george  on  the  back.'] 

Look  more  pleased.     [Then  he  bends  over  lady  cottes- 

ham's  hand.]     Lady  Charlie  .  .  my  service  to  you  .  .  all. 

Ann.    [And  he  takes  ann's  hand  to  kiss.] 

^  ANN.     If  I  can  think  better  of  all  this,  I  shall.  Good-bye. 

She  turns  away  from  him.    He  stands  for  a  moment 

considering  her,  but  follows  tatton  away  through 

the  orchard,    george  and  sarah  are  watching  their 

sister,  who  then  comments  on  her  little  affair  with 

life, 

ANN.  I'm  growing  up.  [Then  with  a  sudden  tremor.] 
Sally,  don't  let  me  be  forced  to  marry. 

GEORGE.    Force  of  circumstances,  my  dear  Ann. 

ANN.  Outside  things.  Why  couldn't  I  run  away  from 
this  garden  and  over  the  hills  .  .  ?  I  suppose  there's 
something  on  the  other  side  of  the  hills. 

SARAH.  You'd  find  yourself  there  .  .  and  circumstances. 

ANN.     So  I'm  trapped  as  well  as  that  Lord  John. 

SARAH.     What's  the  injury? 

ANN.  I'm  taken  by  surprise,  and  I  know  I'm  ignorant, 
and  I  think  I'm  learning  things  backwards. 

GEORGE.  You  must  chccr  up  and  say :  John's  not  a  bad 
sort. 

SARAH.    A  man  of  his  age  is  a  young  man. 

ANN.    I  wish  you  wouldn't  recommend  him  to  me. 

SARAH.  Let's  think  of  Brighton.  What  about  your 
gowns  ? 

ANN.    I've  nothing  to  wear. 


38  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  ii 

SARAH.     We'll  talk  to  Papa. 

GEORGE.     The  war-purse  is  always  a  long  one. 

SARAH.     George  .  .  be  one  of  us  for  a  minute. 

GEORGE.     But  I  want  to  look  on,  too,  and  laugh. 

SARAH.  ICaustically.']  Yes  .  .  that's  your  privilege  .  . 
except  occasionally.  IThen  to  her  sister.^  I  wish  you  all 
the  happiness  of  courtship  days. 

GEORGE.    Arcadian  expression ! 

ANN.     I  believe  it  means  being  kissed  .  .  often. 

SARAH.  Have  you  not  a  touch  of  romance  in  you,  little 
girl? 

ANN.  Am  I  not  like  Mr.  Dan  Tatton  ?  He  kisses  dairy- 
maids and  servants  and  all  the  farmers'  daughters  .  .  I 
beg  your  pardon,  George. 

GEORGE.  INettled.']  I'll  say  to  you,  Ann,  that — in  all 
essentials — one  woman  is  as  good  as  another. 

SARAH.     That  is  not  so  in  the  polite  world. 

GEORGE.  When  you  consider  it,  no  one  lives  in  the 
polite  world. 

ANN.     Do  they  come  outside  for  air,  sooner  or  later? 

SARAH.  IBriskly.']  Three  best  dresses  you  must  have, 
and  something  very  gay  if  you're  to  go  near  the  Pavilion. 

ANN.    You're  coming  to  Brighton,  Sally  ? 

SARAH.      No. 

ANN.     Why  not? 

SARAH.    I  don't  wish  to  meet  my  husband. 

GEORGE.     That  man  was  his  lawyer. 

ANN.    The  poHtical  difference,  Sally? 

SARAH.  Just  that.  [Then  with  a  deft  turn  of  the  sub- 
ject.~\  I  don't  say  that  yours  is  a  pretty  face,  but  I  should 
think  you  would  have  charm. 

GEORGE.     For  fashion's  sake  cultivate  sweetness. 

SARAH.     You  dance  as  well  as  they  know  how  in  Reading. 

ANN.     Yes  .  .  I  can  twiddle  my  feet. 

SARAH.    Do  you  like  dancing? 


ACT  ii]  ANN   LEETE  89 

ANN.     I'd  sooner  walk. 

GEORGE,     What  .  .  and  get  somewhere! 

ANN.     Here's  George  laughing. 

SARAH.     He's  out  of  it. 

ANN.     Are  you  happy,  George?  s 

GEORGE.    Alas  .  .  Dolly's  disgraceful  ignorance  of  eti- 
quette damns  us  both  from  the  beautiful  drawing-room. 

SARAH.     That  laugh  is  forced.     But  how  can  you  .  .  . 
look  on  ? 

There  is  a  slight  pause  in  their  talk.    Then  .  .  . 

ANN.    He'll  bully  me  with  love. 

SARAH.     Your  husband  will  give  you  just  what  you  ask 
for. 

ANN.    I  hate  myself,  too.    I  want  to  take  people  mentally. 

GEORGE.    You  want  a  new  world  .  .  you  new  woman. 

ANN.    And  I'm  a  good  bit  frightened  of  myself. 

SARAH.  '  We  have  our  places  to  fill  in  this.     My  dear 
child,  leave  futile  questions  alone. 

GEORGE.     Neither  have  I  any  good  advice  to  give  you. 

ANN.    I  think  happiness  is  a  thing  one  talks  too  much 
about. 

DIM  MUCK  appears.    And  by  now  abud's  work  has 
brought  him  back  to  the  terrace, 

DIM  MUCK.     The  master  would  like  to  see  your  Ladyship 
now. 

SARAH.    I'll  say  we've  had  a  visitor  .  .  Guess. 

GEORGE.     And  you've  had  a  visitor,  Sarah. 

ANN.     Papa  will  know. 

SARAH.     Is  he  in  a  questioning  mood? 

ANN.     I  always  tell  everything. 

SARAH.     It  saves  time. 

She  departs  towards  the  house, 

DiMMUCK.    Mr.  George, 

GEORGE.    What  is  it? 


40  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  ii 

DiMMUCK.     He   said   No   to   a   doctor  when   I  haven't 
even  mentioned  the  matter.    Had  I  better  send  .  .   ? 
GEORGE.     Do  .  .  if  you  care  to  waste  the  doctor's  time. 
DIMMUCK  gives  an  offended  sniff  and  follows  lady 

COTTESHAM. 

ANN.     I  could  sit  here  for  days.    George,  I  don't  think  I 
quite  believe  in  anything  I've  been  told  yet. 

GEORGE.     What's  that  man's  name  ? 

ANN.    John — ^John  is  a  common  name — ^John  Abud. 

GEORGE.    Abud ! 

ABUD.     Sir  ? 

GEORGE.     Come  here. 

ABUD  obediently  walks  towards  his  young  master 
and  stands  before  him. 

GEORGE.     Why  did  you  ask  after  the  health  of  Mrs. 
George  Leete? 

ABUD.    We  courted  once. 

GEORGE.     [After  a  moment.']    Listen,  Ann.    Do  you  hate 
me,  John  Abud? 

ABUD.     No,  sir. 

GEORGE.    You're  a  fine-looking  fellow.    How  old  are  you  ?i 

ABUD.     Twenty-seven,  sir. 

GEORGE.     Is  Once  long  ago? 

ABUD.     Two  years  gone. 

GEORGE.     Did  Mrs.  Leete  quarrel  with  you? 

ABUD.     No,  sir. 

GEORGE.     Pray  tell  me  more, 

ABUD.     I  was  beneath  her. 

GEORGE.     But  you're  a  fine-looking  fellow. 

ABUD.    Farmer  Crowe  wouldn't  risk  his  daughter  being 
unhappy. 

GEORGE.     But  she  was  beneath  me. 

ABUD.     That  was  another  matter,  sir. 

GEORGE.     I  don't  think  you  intend  to  be  sarcastic. 


ACT  n]  ANN  LEETE  41 

ABUD.  And  .  .  being  near  her  time  for  the  first  time, 
sir  .  .  I  wanted  to  know  if  she  is  in  danger  of  dying  yet. 

GEORGE.  Every  precaution  has  been  taken  .  .  a  nurse  .  . 
there  is  a  physician  near.  I  need  not  tell  you  .  .  but  I 
do  tell  you. 

ABUD.    Thank  you,  sir. 

GEORGE.    I  take  great  interest  in  my  wife. 

ABUD.    We  all  do,  sir. 

GEORGE.    Was  it  ambition  that  you  courted  her? 

ABUD.     I  thought  to  start  housekeeping. 

GEORGE.    Did  you  aspire  to  rise  socially? 

ABUD.    I  wanted  a  wife  to  keep  house,  sir. 

GEORGE.    Are  you  content? 

ABUD.     I  think  so,  sir. 

GEORGE.    With  your  humble  position? 

ABUD.    I'm  a  gardener,  and  there'll  always  be  gardens. 

GEORGE.  Frustrated  affections  .  .  I  beg  your  pardon.  .  . 
To  have  been  crossed  in  love  should  make  you  bitter  and 
ambitious. 

ABUD.  My  father  was  a  gardener  and  my  son  will  be  a 
gardener  if  he's  no  worse  a  man  than  I  and  no  better. 

GEORGE.    Are  you  married? 

ABUD.    No,  sir. 

GEORGE.    Are  you  going  to  be  married? 

ABUD.    Not  especially,  sir. 

GEORGE.  Yes  .  .  you  must  marry  .  .  some  decent 
woman;  we  want  gardeners. 

ABUD.    Do  you  want  me  any  more  now,  sir? 

GEORGE.  You  have  interested  me.  You  can  go  back  to 
your  work. 

ABUD  obeys. 

GEORGE.     lAlmost  to  himself. 1    I  am  hardly  human. 
He  slowly  moves  away  and  out  of  sight. 

'ANN.    John  Abud. 

'He  comes  hack  and  stands  before  her  too. 


4a 


THE  MARRYING  OF 


[act  n 


Say 


^  ANN.     I  am  very  sorry  for  you. 

ABUD.     I  am  very  much  obligated  to  you,  Miss. 
ANN.     Both  those  sayings  are  quite  meaningless, 
something  true  about  yourself. 
ABUD.     I'm  not  sorry  for  myself. 

ANN.     I  won't  tell.    It's  very  clear  you  ought  to  be  in  a 
despairing  state.    Don't  stand  in  the  sun  with  your  hat  off. 
ABUD.     [Putting  on  his  hat.']     Thank  you,  Miss- 
ANN.     Have  you  nearly  finished  the  rose-trees? 
ABUD.     I  must  work  till  late  this  evening. 
ANN.    Weren't  you  ambitious  for  Dolly's  sake? 
ABUD.     She  thought  me  good  enough. 
ANN.    I'd  have  married  her. 
ABUD.    She  was  ambitious  for  me. 
ANN.    And  are  you  frightened  of  the  big  world? 
ABUD.     Fine  things  dazzle  me  sometimes. 
ANN.    But  gardening  is  all  that  you're  fit  for? 
ABUD.     I'm  afraid  so.  Miss. 

ANN.    But  it's  great  to  be  a  gardener  .  .  to  sow  seeds 
and  to  watch  flowers  grow  and  to  cut  away  dead  things, 
ABUD.     Yes,  Miss. 

And  you're  in  the  fresh  air  all  day. 
That's  very  healthy. 
Are  you  very  poor  ? 
I  get  my  meals  in  the  house. 
Rough  clothes  last  a  long  time. 
I've  saved  money. 
Where  do  you  sleep? 
At  Mrs.  Hart's  .  .  at  a  cottage 


ANN. 
ABUD. 
ANN. 
ABUD. 
ANN. 
ABUD. 
ANN. 
ABUD. 
Oflf. 

ANN. 


It's  a  mile 


And  you  want  no  more  than  food  and  clothes  and 
a  bed  and  you  earn  all  that  with  your  hands. 
ABUD.    The  less  a  man  wants,  Miss,  the  better. 
ANN.    But  you  mean  to  marry? 
ABUD.    Yes  .  .  I've  saved  money. 


!act  n]  ANN   LEETE  48 

ANN.    Whom  will  you  marry?    Would  you  rather  not 
say?    Perhaps  you  don't  know  yet? 

ABUD.    It's  all  luck  what  sort  of  a  maid  a  man  gets  fond 
of.    It  won't  be  a  widow. 

ANN.     Be  careful,  John  Abud. 

ABUD.     No  .  .  I  shan't  be  careful. 

ANN.    You'll  do  very  wrong  to  be  made  a  fool  of. 

ABUD.     I'm  safe.  Miss;  I've  no  eye  for  a  pretty  face. 

DIM  MUCK  arrives  asthmatically  at  the  top  of  the 

steps. 
DIMMUCK.    Where's  Mr.  George?    Here's  a  messenger 
come  post. 
ANN.    Find  him,  Abud. 
ABUD.     \To  DIMMUCK.]     From  Doll}r?, 
DIMMUCK.    speak  respectful. 
ABUD.    It  is  from  his  wife? 
DIMMUCK.     Go  find  him. 

ANN.     l^As  ABUD   IS  imttwvable.']    Dimmuck  .  .  .  tell 
me  about  Mrs.  George. 

DIMMUCK.     She's  doing  well.  Miss. 
ABUD.     [Shouting  joyfully  now.^     Mr.   George!     Mr. 
George ! 
ANN.    A  boy  or  a  girl,  Dimmuck? 
DIMMUCK.    Yes,  Miss. 
ABUD.    Mr.  George!   Mr.  George! 
DIMMUCK.    Ecod  .  .  is  he  somewhere  else? 

DIMMUCK,  somewhat  excited  himself,  returns  to  the 

house. 
ANN.     George ! 
ABUD.    Mr.  George!  Mr.  George! 

GEORGE  comes  slowly  along  the  terrace,  in  his  hand 

an  open  hook,  which  some  people  might  suppose 

he  was  reading.    He  speaks  with  studied  calm. 
GEORGE.    You  are  very  excited,  my  good  man. 
ABUD.    She's  brought  you  a  child,  sir. 


M  THE  MARRYING  OF  [act  n 

—  r      -'  I 

ANN.    Your  child! 
GEORGE.    Certainly. 
ABUD.    Thank  God,  sir! 
GEORGE.    I  will  if  I  please. 
ANN.    And  she's  doing  well. 
ABUD.    There's  a  messenger  come  post. 
GEORGE.    To  be  sure  .  .  it  might  have  been  bad  news. 
And  slowly  he  crosses  the  garden  towards  the  house. 
ABUD.     ^Suddenly,  beyond  all  patience.']     Run  .  .  damn 
you! 

George  makes  one  supreme  effort  to  maintain  his 
dignity,  but  fails  utterly.    He  gasps  out  .  .  . 
GEORGE.     Yes,  I  will.   [And  runs  off  as  hard  as  he  can.] 
ABUD.     \In  an  ecstasy.]     This  is  good.    Oh,  Dolly  and 
God  .  .  this  is  good! 
ANN.     [Round  eyed.]   I  wonder  that  you  can  be  pleased. 
ABUD.     [Apologising  .  .  without  apology,]     It's  life. 
ANN.     [Struck.]     Yes,  it  is. 

Attd  she  goes  towards  the  house,  thinking  this  ov^r. 


ACT  m]  ANN   LEETE  m 


THE  THIRD  ACT 

It  is  near  to  sunset.     The  garden  is  shadier  than 
before. 

ABUD  is  still  working,  carnaby  leete  comes  from 

the  house,  followed  by  dr.  remnant.    He  wears  his 

right  arm  in  a  sling.    His  face  is  flushed,  his  speech 

rapid. 

carnaby.     Parson,  you  didn't  drink  enough  wine  .  .  • 

damme,  the  wine  was  good. 

DR.  remnant.  I  am  very  grateful  for  an  excellent 
dinner. 

CARNABY.  A  good  dinner,  sir,  is  the  crown  to  a  good 
day's  work. 

DR.  REMNANT.  It  may  also  be  a  comfort  in  affliction. 
Our  philosophy  does  ill,  Mr.  Leete,  when  it  despises  the 
more  simple  means  of  contentment. 

CARNABY.  And  which  will  be  the  better  lover  of  a 
woman,  a  hungry  or  a  well-fed  man? 

DR.  REMNANT.  A  good  meal  digests  love  with  it;  for 
what  is  love  but  a  food  to  live  by  .  .  but  a  hungry  love 
will  ofttimes  devour  its  owner. 

CARNABY.  Admirable !  Give  me  a  man  in  love  to  deal 
with.    Vous  I'avez  vu? 

DR.  REMNANT.  Speak  Latin,  Greek  or  Hebrew  to  me, 
Mr.  Leete. 

CARNABY.  French  is  the  language  of  little  things.  My 
poor  France !  Ours  is  a  little  world,  Parson  ...  a  man 
may  hold  it  here.  [His  open  hand.']  Lord  John  Carp's  a 
fine  fellow. 


46  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  m 

DR.  REMNANT.     Son  of  a  Duke. 

CARNABY.  And  I  commend  to  you  the  originality  of  his 
return.  At  twelve  we  fight  ...  at  one-thirty  he  proposes 
marriage  to  my  daughter.  D'ye  see  him  humbly  on  his 
knees  ?    Will  there  be  rain,  I  wonder  ? 

DR.  REMNANT.    We  Hccd  rain  .  .  Abud? 

ABUD.     Badly,  sir. 

CARNABY.  Do  wc  want  a  wet  journey  to-morrow! 
Where's  Sarah? 

DR.  REMNANT.     Lady  Cottesham's  taking  tea. 

CARNABY.  [To  ABUD,  with  o  sudden  start J\  And  why 
the  devil  didn't  you  marry  my  daughter-in-law  .  .  my  own 
gardener  ? 

GEORGE  appears  dressed  for  riding. 

GEORGE.     Good-bye,  sir,  for  the  present. 

CARNABY.     Boots  and  breeches  ! 

GEORGE.  You  shouldn't  be  about  in  the  evening  air  with 
a  g^een  wound  in  your  arm.  You  drank  wine  at  dinner. 
Be  careful,  sir. 

CARNABY.    Off  to  your  wife  and  the  expected? 

GEORGE.     Yes,  sir. 

CARNABY.    Riding  to  Watford  ? 

GEORGE.  From  there  alongside  the  North  Coach,  if  I'm 
in  time. 

CARNABY.  Don't  founder  my  horse.  Will  ye  leave  the 
glorious  news  with  your  grandfather  at  Wycombe? 

GEORGE.  I  won't  fail  to.  [Then  to  abud.]  We've  been 
speaking  of  you. 

ABUD.    It  was  never  any  secret,  sir. 

GEORGE.     Don't  apologise. 

Soon  after  this  abud  passes  out  of  sight. 

CARNABY.     Nature's  an  encumbrance  to  us.  Parson. 

DR.  REMNANT.     One  disapproves  of  flesh  uninspired. 

CARNABY.  She  allows  you  no  amusing  hobbies  .  .  al- 
ways takes  you  seriously. 


ACT  m]  ANN   LEETE  M 

GEORGE.     Good-bye,  Parson. 

DR.  REMNANT.     [As  he  hows.'\    Youf  most  obedient. 

CARNAEY.  And  you  trifle  with  damnable  democracy, 
with  pretty  theories  of  the  respect  due  to  womanhood,  and 
now  the  result  .  .  .  hark  to  it  squalling. 

DR.  REMNANT.  Being  fifty  miles  off  might  not  one  say : 
The  cry  of  the  new-born  ? 

CARNABY.  Ill-bred  babies  squall.  There's  no  poetic 
glamour  in  the  world  will  beautify  an  undesired  infant.  .  . 
George  says  so. 

GEORGE.     I  did  say  so. 

CARNABY.    I  feel  the  whole  matter  deeply. 
GEORGE  half  laughs. 

CARNABY.     George,  after  days  of  irritability,  brought  to 
bed  of  a  smile.    That's  a  home  thrust  of  a  metaphor. 
GEORGE  laughs  again. 

CARNABY.     Twins ! 

GEORGE.  Yes,  a  boy  and  a  girl  .  .  .  I'm  the  father  of  a 
boy  and  a  girl. 

CARNABY.  [/w  dignified,  indignant  horror.']  No  one  of 
you  dared  tell  me  that  much! 

SARAH  and  ANN  come  from  the  house. 

GEORGE.  You  could  havc  asked  me  for  news  of  your 
grandchildren. 

CARNABY.     Twins  is  an  insult. 

SARAH.     But  you  look  very  cheerful,  George. 

GEORGE.     I  am  content. 

SARAH.    I'm  surprised. 

GEORGE.     I  am  surprised. 

SARAH.     Now  what  names  for  them? 

CARNABY.     No  family  names,  please. 

GEORGE.  We'll  wait  for  a  dozen  years  or  so,  and  let 
them  choose  their  own. 

DR.  REMNANT.     But,  sir,  christening  will  demand 

CARNABY.    Your  son  should  have  had  my  name,  sir. 


48  THE  MARRYING  OF  [act  m 

GEORGE.  I  know  the  rule  .  .  as  I  have  my  grandfather's, 
which  I  take  no  pride  in. 

SARAH.     George ! 

GEORGE.     Not  to  say  that  it  sounds  his,  not  mine. 

CARNABY.     Our  hopcs  of  you  were  high  once. 

GEORGE.  Sarah,  may  I  kiss  you?  [He  kisses  her  cheek. 1 
Let  me  hear  what  you  decide  to  do. 

CARNABY.     The  begetting  of  you,  sir,  was  a  waste  of  time. 

GEORGE.     [Quite  pleasantly.]    Don't  say  that. 

At  the  top  of  the  steps  ann  is  waiting  for  him. 

GEORGE.     Thank  you,  sister  Ann. 

GEORGE.     Thank  you,  sister  Ann. 

ANN.     Why  didn't  you  leave  us  weeks  ago? 

GEORGE.     Why  ? 

They  pace  away,  arm-in-arm. 

CARNABY.     [Bitterly.']    Glad  to  go !    Brighton,  Sarah. 

SARAH.     No,  I  shall  not  come.  Papa. 

CARNABY.     Coward.     [Then  to  remnant.]    Good-night. 

DR.  REMNANT.  [Covering  the  insolent  dismissal.]  With 
your  kind  permission  I  will  take  my  leave.  [Then  he  bows 
to  SARAH.]    Lady  Cottesham. 

SARAH.     [Curtseying.]    Doctor  Remnant,  I  am  yours. 

CARNABY.  [Sitting  by  the  fountain,  stamping  his  foot.] 
Oh,  this  cracked  earth !    Will  it  rain  .  .  will  it  rain  ? 

DR.  REMNANT.    I  doubt  now.    That  cloud  has  passed. 

CARNABY.  Soft,  pellucid  rain !  There's  a  good  word, 
and  I'm  not  at  all  sure  what  it  means. 

DR.  REMNANT.     Per  .  .  luccrc  .  .  .  letting  light  through. 
REMNANT  Icavcs  them. 

CARNABY.  Solt,  pellucid  rain !  .  .  thank  you.  Brightoa- 
Sarah. 

SARAH.    Ann  needs  new  clothes. 

CARNABY.     See  to  it. 

SARAH.    I  shall  not  be  there. 
She  turns  from  him. 


ACT  m]  ANN   LEETE  49 

CARNABY.    Pretty  climax  to  a  quarrel! 

SARAH.    Not  a  quarrel. 

CARNABY.    A  political  difference. 

SARAH.    Don't  look  so  ferocious. 

CARNABY.  My  arm  is  in  great  pain  and  the  wine's  in 
my  head. 

SARAH.    Won't  you  go  to  bed? 

CARNABY.  I'm  well  enough  .  .  to  travel.  This  marriage 
makes  us  safe,  Sarah  .  .  an  anchor  in  each  camp  .  . 
There's  a  mixed  metaphor. 

SARAH.  If  you'll  have  my  advice,  Papa,  you'll  keep 
those  plans  clear  from  Ann's  mind. 

CARNABY.  John  Carp  is  so  much  clay  .  .  a  man  of 
forty  ignorant  of  himself. 

SARAH.     But  if  the  Duke  will  not  .  . 

CARNABY.    The  Duke  hates  a  scandal. 

SARAH.     Does  he  detest  scandal? 

CARNABY.  The  girl  is  well-bred  and  harmless  .  .  why 
publicly  quarrel  with  John  and  incense  her  old  brute  of  a 
father?  There's  the  Duke  in  a  score  of  words.  He'll  take 
a  little  time  to  think  it  out  so. 

SARAH.  And  I  say :  Do  you  get  on  the  right  side  of  the 
Duke  once  again — that's  what  we've  worked  for — and 
leave  these  two  alone. 

CARNABY.    Am  I  to  lose  my  daughter? 

SARAH.     Papa  .  .  your  food's  intrigue. 

CARNABY.     Scold  at  Society  .  .  and  what's  the  use? 

SARAH.     We're  over-civilized. 

ANN  rejoins  them  now.    The  twilight  is  gathering. 

CARNABY.  My  mother's  very  old  .  .  .  your  grand- 
father's younger  and  seventy-nine  .  .  he  swears  I'll  never 
come  into  the  title.    There's  little  else. 

SARAH.     You're  feverish  .  .  why  are  you  saying  this? 

CARNABY.  Ann  .  .  George  .  .  George  via  Wycombe  .  . 
Wycombe  Court  .  .  Sir  George  Leete  baronet,  Justice  of 


60  THE  MARRYING  OF  [act  m 

the  Peace,  Deputy  Lieutenant  .  .  the  thought's  tumbled. 
Ann,  I  first  saw  your  mother  in  this  garden  .  .  there. 

ANN.     Was  she  Hke  me  ? 

SARAH.    My  age  when  she  married. 

CARNABY.     She  was  not  beautiful  .  .  then  she  died. 

ANN.     Mr.  Tatton  thinks  it  a  romantic  garden. 

CARNABY.  IPause.l^  D'ye  hear  the  wind  sighing  through 
that  tree? 

ANN.     The  air's  quite  still. 

CARNABY.  I  hear  myself  sighing  .  .  when  I  first  saw 
your  mother  in  this  garden  .  .  .  that's  how  it  was  done. 

SARAH.     For  a  woman  must  marry. 

CARNABY.  [Rises.']  You  all  take  to  it  as  ducks  to  water 
.  .  but  apple  sauce  is  quite  correct  .  .  I  must  not  mix 
metaphors. 

MRS.  opiE  comes  from  the  house. 

SARAH.     Your  supper  done,  Mrs.  Opie? 

MRS.  opiE.     I  eat  little  in  the  evening. 

SARAH.     I  believe  that  saves  digestion. 

MRS.  OPIE.    Ann,  do  you  need  me  more  to-night  ? 

ANN.     Not  any  more, 

MRS.  OPiE.  Ann,  there  is  gossip  among  the  servants 
about  a  wager  .  .  . 

ANN.     Mrs.  Opie,  that  was  .  .  .  yesterday. 

MRS.  opiE.  Ann,  I  should  be  glad  to  be  able  to  contra- 
dict a  reported  .  .  embrace. 

ANN.     I  was  kissed. 

MRS.  OPiE.     I  am  shocked. 

CARNABY.  Mrs.  Opie,  is  it  possible  that  all  these  years 
I  have  been  nourishing  a  prude  in  my  .  .  back  drawing- 
room? 

MRS.  opiE.  I  presume  I  am  discharged  of  Ann's  educa- 
tion; but  as  the  salaried  mistress  of  your  household,  Mr. 
Leete,  I  am  grieved  not  to  be  able  to  deny  such  a  rumour 
to  your  servants. 


ACT  m]  ANN   LEETE  61 

She  sails  hack,  righteously  indignant. 

CARNABY.    Call  out  that  you're  marrying  the  wicked 
man  .  .  comfort  her. 

SARAH.    Mrs.  Opie! 

CARNABY.    Consider  that  existence.    An  old  maid  .  .  so 
far  as  we  know.    Brevet  rank  .  .  missis.    Not  pleasant. 

ANN.     She  wants  nothing  better  .  .  at  her  age. 

SARAH.     How  forgetful! 

CARNABY.     \The  force  of  the  phrase  growing,"]    Brigh- 
ton, Sarah. 

SARAH.     Now  you've  both  read  the  love-letter  which 
Tetgeen  brought  me. 

CARNABY.     Come  to  Brighton. 

ANN.     Come  to  Brighton,  Sally. 

SARAH.     No.     I   have  been  thinking.     I  think   I  will 
accept  the  income,  the  house,  coals,  butter  and  eggs. 

CARNABY.     I  give  you  a  fortnight  to  bring  your  husband 
to  his  knees  .  .  to  your  feet. 

SARAH.    I'm  not  sure  that  I  could.     My  marriage  has 
come  naturally  to  an  end. 

CARNABY.    Sarah,  don't  annoy  me. 

SARAH.    Papa,   you   joined   my   bridegroom's   political 
party  .  .  now  you  see  fit  to  leave  it. 

She  glances  at  ann,  who  gives  no  sign,  however. 

CARNABY.    What  have  you  been  doing  in  ten  years  ? 

SARAH.    Waiting  for  this  to  happen  .  .  now  I  come  to 
think. 

CARNABY.    Have  ye  the  impudence  to  tell  me  that  ye've 
never  cared  for  your  husband? 

SARAH.    I  was  caught  by  the  first  few  kisses ;  but  he  .  .  . 

CARNABY.    Has  he  ever  been  unkind  to  you? 

SARAH.    Never.    He's  a  gentleman  through  and  through 
.  .  .  quite  charming  to  live  with. 

CARNABY.    I  see  what  more  you  expect.    And  he  neither 


53  THE  MARRYING  OF  [act  m 

drinks  nor  .  .  nor  .  .  no  one  even  could  suppose  your 
leaving  him, 

SARAH.    No.    I'm  disgraced. 

CARNABY.     Fight  for  your  honour. 

SARAH.    You  surprise  me  sometimes  by  breaking  out 
into  cant  phrases. 

CARNABY.     What  is   more  useful   in  the  world  than 
honour  ? 

SARAH.    I  think  we  never  had  any  .  .  we! 

CARNABY.     Give  me  more  details.    Tell  me,  who  is  this 
man? 

SARAH.     I'm  innocent* .  .  if  that  were  all, 

ANN.     Sally,  what  do  they  say  you've  done? 

SARAH.     I  cry  out  like  any  poor  girl. 

CARNABY.    There  must  be  no  doubt  that  you're  innocent. 
Why  not  go  for  to  force  Charles  into  court  ? 

SARAH.    My  innocence  is  not  of  the  sort  which  shows 
up  well. 

CARNABY.    Hold  publicity  in  reserve.     No  fear  of  the 
two  men  arranging  to  meet,  is  there  ? 

SARAH.    They've  met  .  .  and  they  chatted  about  me. 

CARNABY.     [After  a  moment.']     There's  sound  humour 
in  that. 

SARAH.    I  shall  feel  able  to  laugh  at  them  both  from 
Yorkshire. 

CARNABY.      God  f orbid !      Come  to  Brighton  .  .  we'll 
rally  Charles  no  end. 

SARAH.    Papa,  I  know  there's  nothing  to  be  done. 

CARNABY.     Coward ! 

SARAH.     Besides,  I  don't  think  I  want  to  go  back  to  my 
happiness. 

They  are  silent  for  a  little. 

CARNABY.     How  Still!    Look  .  .  leaves  falling  already. 
Can  that  man  hear  what  we're  saying? 

SARAH.     [To  ANN.]     Can  Abud  overhear? 


ACT  m]  ANN  LEETE  5S 

ANN.  I've  never  talked  secrets  in  the  garden  before 
to-day.  [Raising  her  voice  but  a  very  little.']  Can  you 
hear  me,  Abud? 

No  reply  comes. 

CARNABY.  Evidently  not.  There's  brains  shown  in  a 
trifle. 

SARAH.    Does  your  arm  pain  you  so  much? 

ANN.  Sarah,  this  man  that  you're  fond  of  and  that's 
not  your  husband  is  not  by  any  chance  Lord  John  Carp  ? 

SARAH.      No. 

ANN.    Nothing  would  surprise  me. 

SARAH.  You  are  witty  .  .  but  a  little  young  to  be  so 
hard. 

CARNABY.    Keep  to  your  innocent  thoughts. 

ANN.    I  must  study  politics. 

SARAH.    We'll  stop  talking  of  this. 

ANN.     No  .  .  let  me  listen  .  .  quite  quietly. 

CARNABY.    Let  her  listen  .  .  she's  going  to  be  married. 

SARAH.    Good  luck,  Ann. 

CARNABY.     I  have  great  hopes  of  Ann. 

SARAH.  I  hope  she  may  be  heartless.  To  be  heartless 
is  to  be  quite  safe. 

CARNABY.  Now  we  dctcct  a  taste  of  sour  grapes  in  your 
mouth. 

SARAH.     Butter  and  eggs. 

CARNABY.  We  must  all  start  early  in  the  morning. 
Sarah  will  take  you,  Ann,  round  the  Brighton  shops  .  . 
fine  shops.    You  shall  have  the  money  .  .  . 

SARAH.    I  will  not  come  with  you. 

CARNABY.  [Vexedly.']  How  absurd  .  .  how  ridiculous 
.  .  to  persist  in  your  silly  sentiment. 

SARAH.  [Her  voice  rising.']  I'm  tired  of  that  world  .  . 
which  goes  on  and  on,  and  there's  no  dying  .  .  .  one 
grows  into  a  ghost  .  .  visible  .  .  then  invisible.    I'm  glad 


54  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  hi 

paint  has  gone  out  of  fashion  .  .  .  the  painted  ghosts 
were  very  ill  to  see. 

CARNABY.    D'ye  scoff  at  civilisation? 

SARAH.    Look  ahead  for  me. 

CARNABY.  Banished  to  a  hole  in  the  damned  provinces ! 
But  you're  young  yet,  you're  charming  .  .  you're  the  wife 
.  .  and  the  honest  wife  of  one  of  the  country's  best  men. 
My  head  aches.  D'ye  despise  good  fortune's  gifts?  Keep 
as  straight  in  your  place  in  the  world  as  you  can.  A 
monthly  packet  of  books  to  Yorkshire  .  .  no  .  .  you  never 
were  fond  of  reading.  Ye'd  play  patience  . .  cultivate 
chess  problems  .  .  kill  yourself ! 

SARAH.    When  one  world  fails  take  another. 

CARNABY.  You  have  no  more  right  to  commit  suicide 
than  to  desert  the  society  you  were  born  into.  My  head 
aches. 

SARAH.    George  is  happy. 

CARNABY.     D'ye  dare  to  think  so  ? 

SARAH.    No  .  .  it's  a  horrible  marriage. 

CARNABY.  He's  losing  refinement  .  .  mark  me  .  .  he 
no  longer  polishes  his  nails. 

SARAH.     But  there  are  the  children  now. 

CARNABY.    You  nevcr  have  wanted  children. 

SARAH.    I  don't  want  a  little  child. 

CARNABY.  She  to  be  Lady  Leete  .  .  some  day  .  .  soon ! 
What  has  he  done  for  his  family? 

SARAH.  I'll  come  with  you.  You  are  clever,  Papa.  And 
I  know  just  what  to  say  to  Charles. 

CARNABY.  [With  a  curious  change  of  tone.']  H  you 
study  anatomy  you'll  find  that  the  brain,  as  it  works,  press- 
ing forward  the  eyes  .  .  thought  is  painful.  Never  be  de- 
feated. Chapter  the  latest  .  .  the  tickling  of  the  Carp. 
And  my  throat  is  dry  .  .  shall  I  drink  that  water  ? 

SARAH.    No,  I  wouldn't 


ACT  m]  ANN   LEETE  65 

CARNABY.    Not  out  of  my  hand? 

ANN.  [Speaking  in  a  strange,  quiet  voice,  after  her 
long  silence.']    I  will  not  come  to  Brighton  with  you. 

CARNABY.    Very  dry! 

ANN.    You  must  go  back,  Sally. 

CARNABY.  [As  he  looks  at  her,  standing  stiffly."]  Now 
what  is  Ann's  height  .  .  five  feet  .  .   ? 

ANN.  Sally  must  go  back,  for  she  belongs  to  it  .  .  but 
I'll  stay  here  where  I  belong. 

CARNABY.  You've  spokcn  three  times,  and  the  words 
are  jumbling  in  at  my  ears  meaninglessly.  I  certainly 
took  too  much  wine  at  dinner  .  .  or  else  .  .  .  Yes  .  . 
Sally  goes  back  .  .  and  you'll  go  forward.  Who  stays 
here?  Don't  burlesque  your  sister.  What's  in  the  air  .  , 
what  disease  is  this? 

ANN.  I  mean  to  disobey  you  .  .  to  stay  here  .  .  never 
to  be  unhappy. 

CARNABY.     So  plcascd ! 

ANN.  I  want  to  be  an  ordinary  woman  .  .  not  clever 
.  .  not  fortunate. 

CARNABY.    I  can't  hear. 

ANN.    Not  clever.    I  don't  believe  in  you,  Papa. 

CARNABY.     I  exist  .  .  I'm  very  sorry. 

ANN.  I  won't  be  married  to  any  man.  I  refuse  to  be 
tempted  .  .  I  won't  see  him  again. 

CARNABY.    Yes.    It's  raining. 

SARAH.    Raining ! 

CARNABY.     Don't  you  stop  it  raining. 

ANN.  [In  the  same  level  tones,  to  her  sister  now,  who 
otherwise  would  turn,  alarmed,  to  their  father.]  And  I 
curse  you  .  .  because,  we  being  sisters,  I  suppose  I  am 
much  what  you  were,  about  to  be  married;  and  I  think, 
Sally,  you'd  have  cursed  your  present  self.  I  could  become 
all  that  you  are  and  more  .  .  but  I  don't  choose. 


B6  THE  MARRYING  OF  [act  m 

SARAH.    Ann,  what  is  to  become  of  you? 
CARNABY.     Big  drops  .  .  big  drops ! 

At  this  moment  abud  is  passing  towards  the  house, 
his  work  finished. 
ANN.     John  Abud  .  .  you  mean  to  marry.    When  you 
marry  .  .  will  you  marry  me? 

A  blank  silence,  into  which  breaks  carnaby's  sick 
voice. 
CARNABY.    Take  me  indoors.    I  heard  you  ask  the  gar- 
dener to  marry  you. 
ANN.     I  asked  him. 

CARNABY.    I  heard  you  say  that  you  asked  him.    Take 
me  in  .  .  but  not  out  of  the  rain. 

ANN.    Look  . .  he's  straight-limbed  and  clear-eyed  . . 
and  Tm  a  woman. 

SARAH.     Ann,  are  you  mad? 

ANN.     If  we  two  were  alone  here  in  this  garden,  and 
everyone  else  in  the  world  were  dead  .  .  what  would  you 
answer? 
ABUD.     [Still  amazed.]     Why  .  .  yes. 
CARNABY.     Then  that's  settled  .  .  pellucid. 

He  attempts  to  rise,  but  staggers  backwards  and 
forwards,    sarah  goes  to  him,  alarmed. 
SARAH.    Papa !  .  .  there's  no  rain  yet. 
CARNABY.     Hush,  I'm  dead. 

ANN.     [Her  nerves  failing  her.']    Oh  .  .  oh  .  .  oh  .  .   ! 
SARAH.     Abud,  don't  ever  speak  of  this. 
ABUD.     No,  my  lady. 

ANN.     [With  a  final  effort.]    I  mean  it  all.    Wait  three 
months. 
CARNABY.     Help  me  up  steps  .  .  son-in-law. 

CARNABY  has  Started  to  grope  his  way  indoors.    But 
he  reels  and  falls,  helpless. 
ABUD.    I'll  carry  him. 


ACT  m]  ANN  LEETE  67 

Throwing  down  his  tools  abud  lifts  the  frail  sick 
man  and  carries  him  towards  the  hoiise.     sarah 
follows. 
ANN.    \_Sohhing  a  little  and  weary,"]    Such  a  long  day 
it  has  been  .  .  now  ending. 
She  follows  too. 


68  THE  MARRYING  OF  [act  iv 


THE  FOURTH  ACT 

The  hall  at  Markswayde  is  square;  in  decoration  strictly 
eighteenth  century.  The  floor  polished.  Then  comes  six 
feet  of  soberly  painted  wainscot  and  above  the  greenish 
blue  and  yellowish  green  wall  painted  into  panels.  At 
intervals  are  low  relief  pilasters;  the  capitals  of  these  are 
gilded.  The  ceiling  is  white  and  in  the  centre  of  it  there 
is  a  frosted  glass  dome  through  which  a  dull  light  strug- 
gles.   Two  sides  only  of  the  hall  are  seen. 

In  the  corner  is  a  hat  stand  and  on  it  are  many  cloaks 
and  hats  and  beneath  it  several  pairs  of  very  muddy  boots. 

In  the  middle  of  the  left  hand  wall  are  the  double  doors 
of  the  dining-room  led  up  to  by  three  or  four  stairs  with 
balusters,  and  on  either  side  standing  against  the  wall 
long,  formal,  straight  backed  sofas. 

In  the  middle  of  the  right  hand  wall  is  the  front  door; 
glass  double  doors  can  be  seen  and  there  is  evidently  a 
porch  beyond.  On  the  left  of  the  front  door  a  small 
window.  On  the  right  a  large  fireplace,  in  which  a  large 
fire  is  roaring.  Over  the  front  door,  a  clock  {the  hands 
pointing  to  half -past  one.)  Over  the  fireplace  a  family 
'portrait  {temp.  Queen  Anne),  below  this  a  blunderbuss 
and  several  horse-pistols.  Above  the  sofa  full-length 
family  portraits  {temp.  George  I.)  Before  the  front  door 
a  wooden  screen,  of  lighter  wood  than  the  wainscot,  and 
in  the  middle  of  it  a  small  glass  panel.  Before  this  a 
heavy  square  table  on  which  are  whips  and  sticks,  a  hat 
or.  two  and  brushes;  by  the  table  a  wooden  chmr.    On 


ACT  it]  ANN   LEETE  59 

either  side  of  the  fire  stand  tall  closed-in  armchairs,  and 
between  the  fireplace  and  the  door  a  small  red-haise  screen. 

When  the  dining-room  doors  are  thrown  open  another 
wooden  screen  is  to  he  seen. 

There  are  a  few  rugs  on  the  floor,  formally  arranged. 
MRS.  opiE  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  holding 
out  a  woman's  brown  cloak:  she  drops  one  side  to 
fetch  out  her  handkerchief  and  apply  it  to  her  eye. 
DiMMUCK  comes  in  by  the  front  door,  which  he 
carefully  closes  behind  him.  He  is  wrapped  in  a 
hooded  cloak  and  carries  a  pair  of  boots  and  a  news- 
paper. The  boots  he  arranges  to  warm  before  the 
fire.  Then  he  spreads  the  Chronicle  newspaper 
upon  the  arm  of  a  chair,  then  takes  off  his  cloak  and 
hangs  it  upon  a  peg  close  to  the  door. 

DIMMUCK.    Mrs.    Opie  .  .  will    you    look    to    Its    not 
scorching  ? 

MRS.  opiE  still  mops  her  eyes,  dimmuck  goes 
towards  the  dining-room  door,  but  turns. 

DIMMUCK.    Will   you   kindly,  see   that   the    Chronicle 
newspaper  does  not  burn? 

MRS.  OPIE.     I  was  crying. 

DIMMUCK.    I  leave  this  to-morrow  sennight  .  .  thank- 
ful, ma'am,  to  have  given  notice  in  a  dignified  manner. 

MRS-.  opiE.     I  understand  .  .  Those  persons  at  table  .  . 

DIMMUCK.    You  give  notice. 

MRS.  OPiE.    Mr.  Dimmuck,  this  Is  my  home. 

LORD  ARTHUR  CARP  comcs  out  of  the  dining-room. 
He  is  a  thinner  and  more  earnest-looking  edition  of 
his  brother,  mrs.  opie  turns  a  chair  and  hangs 
the  cloak  to  warm  before  the  fire,  and  then  goes 
into  the  dining-room. 

LORD  ARTHUR.    My  chalsc  round? 

DIMMUCK.    I've  but  just  ordered  it,  my  lord.     Your 
lordship's  man  has  give  me  your  boots. 


60  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  iv 

LORD  ARTHUR.      DoCS  it  SHOW? 

DiMMUCK.     Rather  rain  than  snow. 

LORD  ARTHUR  takes  Up  the  newspaper, 
DIMMUCK.     Yesterday's,  my  lord. 
LORD  ARTHUR.    I've  sccn  it.     The  mails  don't  hurry 
hereabouts.    Can  I  be  in  London  by  the  morning? 
DIMMUCK.     I  should  say  you  might  be,  my  lord. 

LORD  ARTHUR  stts  by  the  Hre,  while  dimmuck  takes 

off  his  pumps  and  starts  to  put  on  his  hoots. 
LORD  ARTHUR.     Is  this  E  horse  called  "Ronald?" 
DIMMUCK.     Which  horse,  my  lord? 
LORD  ARTHUR.    Which  I'm  to  take  back  with  me  .  .  my 
brother  left  here.    I  brought  the  mare  he  borrowed. 
DIMMUCK.    I  remember,  my  lord.    I'll  enquire. 
LORD  ARTHUR.    Tell  Parker  .  . 
DIMMUCK.    Your  lordship's  man? 
LORD  ARTHUR.  .  .  He'd  better  ride  the  beast. 

SARAH  comes  out  of  the  dining-room.    He  stands 

up;  one  hoot,  one  shoe. 
SARAH.    Please  put  on  the  other. 
LORD  ARTHUR.    Thank  you  .  .  I  a  m  in  haste. 
SARAH.    To  depart  before  the  bride's  departure? 
LORD  ARTHUR.    Docs  the  bride  go  with  the  bridegroom? 
SARAH.     She  goes  away. 

LORD  ARTHUR.    I  shall  nevcr  see  such  a  thing  again. 
SARAH.     I  think  this  entertainment  is  unique. 
LORD  ARTHUR.    Any  commissious  in  town? 
SARAH.  Why  can't  you  stay  to  travel  with  us  to-morrow 
and  talk  business  to  Papa  by  the  way? 

DIMMUCK  carrying  the  pumps  and  after  putting  on 

his  cloak  goes  out  through  the  front  door.    When 

it  is  closed,  her  voice  changes, 
SARAH.    Why  .  .  Arthur? 

He  does  not  answer.     Then  mrs.  opie  comes  out 

of  the  dining-room  to  fetch  the  cloak.     The  two. 


ACT  iv]  ANN   LEETE  61 

with  an  effort,  reconstruct  their  casical  disjointed 
conversation. 

SARAH.  .  .  Before  the  bride's  departure? 

LORD  ARTHUR.  Docs  the  bride  go  away  with  the  bride- 
groom ? 

SARAH,    She  goes. 

LORD  ARTHUR.  I  shall  never  see  such  an  entertainment 
again. 

SARAH.    We  are  quite  unique. 

LORD  ARTHUR.    Any  commissions  in  town? 

SARAH.     Is  she  to  go  soon,  too,  Mrs.  Opie? 

MRS.  opiE.  It  is  arranged  they  are  to  walk  .  .  in  this 
weather  .  .  ten  miles  .  .  to  the  house. 

SARAH.    Cottage. 

MRS.  OPIE.     Hut. 

MRS.  OPIE  takes  the  cloak  into  the  dining-room. 
Then  sarah  comes  a  little  towards  lord  Arthur, 
hut  waits  for  him  to  speak. 

LORD  ARTHUR.  [A  little  owkwardly.']  You  are  not  look- 
ing well. 

SARAH.  To  our  memory  .  .  and  beyond  your  little  chat 
with  my  husband  about  me  .  .  I  want  to  speak  an  epitaph. 

LORD  ARTHUR.  Charlie  Cottesham  behaved  most  hon- 
ourably. 

SARAH.  And  I  think  you  did.  Why  have  you  not  let 
me  tell  you  so  in  your  ear  till  now,  to-day  ? 

LORD  ARTHUR.  Sarah  .  .  we  had  a  narrow  escape 
from  .  .  . 

SARAH.    How^s  your  wife? 

LORD  ARTHUR.    Well  .  .  thank  you. 

SARAH.    Nervous,  surely,  at  your  travelling  in  winter? 

LORD  ARTHUR.  I  was  SO  glad  to  receive  a  casual  invita- 
tion from  you  and  to  come  .  .  casually. 

SARAH.     Fifty  miles. 

LORD  ARTHUR.    Your  father  has  been  ill? 


62  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  iv 

SARAH.    Very  ill  through  the  autumn. 
LORD  ARTHUR.    Do  you  think  he  suspects  us? 
SARAH.    I  shouldn't  care  to  peep  into  Papa's  innermost 
mind.    You  are  to  be  very  useful  to  him. 

LORD  ARTHUR.      No. 

SARAH.    Then  he'll  go  back  to  the  government. 

LORD  ARTHUR.  If  he  plcascs  .  .  if  they  please  .  .  if  you 
please. 

SARAH.  I  am  not  going  back  to  my  husband.  Arthur 
.  .  be  useful  to  him. 

LORD  ARTHUR.  No  .  .  you  are  not  coming  to  me.  Al- 
ways your  father !  [After  a  moment.']  It  was  my  little 
home  in  the  country  somehow  said  aloud  you  didn't  care 
for  me. 

SARAH.    I  fooled  you  to  small  purpose. 

LORD  ARTHUR.  I  wish  you  had  once  made  friends  with 
my  wife. 

SARAH.  If  we  .  .  this  house  I'm  speaking  of  .  .  had 
made  friends  where  we've  only  made  tools  and  fools  we 
shouldn't  now  be  cursed  as  we  are  .  .  all.  George,  who  is 
a  cork,  trying  to  sink  socially.  Ann  is  mad  .  .  and  a 
runaway. 

LORD  ARTHUR.     Sarah,  I've  been  devilish  fond  of  you. 

SARAH.  Be  useful  to  Papa.  [^He  shakes  his  head  ob- 
stinately.'] Praise  me  a  little.  Haven't  I  worked  my  best 
for  my  family  ? 

LORD  ARTHUR.  Supposc  I  could  be  uscful  to  him  now, 
would  you,  in  spite  of  all,  come  to  me  .  .  no  half  measures  ? 

SARAH.  Arthur  .  .  [He  makes  a  little  passionate  move- 
ment towards  her,  hut  she  is  cold.]  It's  time  for  me  to 
vanish  from  this  world,  because  I've  nothing  left  to  sell. 

LORD  ARTHUR.    I  Can't  help  him.    I  don't  want  you. 
He  turns  away, 

SARAH.    I  feel  I've  done  my  best. 

LORD  ARTHUR,    Keep  your  father  quiet. 


ACT  IV]  ANN   LEETE  Oa 

SARAH.    I  mean  to  leave  him. 
LORD  ARTHUR.    What  does  he  say  to  that  ? 
SARAH.     IVe  not  yet  told  him. 
LORD  ARTHUR.    What  happens? 

SARAH.    To  sell  my  jewels  .  .  spoils  of  a  ten  years*  war. 
Three  thousand  pound  .  .  how  much  a  year? 
LORD  ARTHUR.    I'll  buy  them. 

SARAH.    And  return  them?    You  have  almost  the  right 
to  make  such  a  suggestion. 

LORD  ARTHUR.     Stick  to  your  father.  He'll  care  for  you? 
SARAH,     No  .  .  we  all  pride  ourselves  on  our  lack  of 
sentiment. 

LORD  ARTHUR.    You  must  take  money  from  your  hus- 
band. 

SARAH.    I  have  earned  that  and  spent  it. 
LORD  ARTHUR.     [Yielding   once   again  to   temptation,'] 
I'm  devilish  fond  of  you  .  .  . 

At  that  moment  abud  comes  out  of  the  dining-room. 

He  is  dressed  in  his  best,    sarah  responds  readily 

to  the  interruption. 

SARAH.    And  you  must  give  my  kindest  compliments  to 

Lady  Arthur  and  my    .  .  affectionately  .  .  to  the  children, 

and  I'll  let  Papa  know  that  you're  going. 

LORD  ARTHUR.     Letters  under  cover  to  your  father? 
SARAH.     Papa  will  stay  in  town  through  the  session,  of 
course  .  .  but  they  all  tell  me  that  seventy-five  pounds  a 
year  is  a  comfortable  income  in  .  .  Timbuctoo. 

She  goes  into  the  dining-room,   abud  has  selected  his 
hoots  from  the  corner,  and  now  stands  with  them  in 
his  hand,  looking  rather  helpless.  After  a  moment — 
LORD  ARTHUR.     I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Abud. 
abud.     My  lord  .  .  I  can't  speak  of  myself. 

CARNABY  comes  out  of  the  dining-room.    He  is  evi- 
dently by  no  means  recovered  from  his  illness.    He 


64  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  iv 

stands  for  a  moment  with  an  ironical  eye  on  john 

ABUD. 

CARNABY.     Son-in-law. 

ABUD.    I'm  told  to  get  on  my  boots,  sir. 

CARNABY.    Allow  me  to  assist  you. 

ABUD.     I  couldn't,  sir. 

CARNABY.     Desole ! 

Then  he  passes  on.  abud  sits  on  the  sofa,  furtively 
puts  on  his  boots,  and  afterwards  puts  his  shoes  in 
his  pockets. 

LORD  ARTHUR.  You  wcre  SO  busy  drinking  health  to  the 
two  fat  farmers  that  I  wouldn't  interrupt  you. 

CARNABY.  Good-bye.  Describe  all  this  to  your  brother 
John. 

LORD  ARTHUR.     So  Confirmed  a  bachelor ! 

CARNABY.     Please  say  that  we  missed  him. 
LORD  ARTHUR  honds  him  the  newspaper. 

LORD  ARTHUR.  Fve  out-raced  your  Chronicle  from  Lon- 
don by  some  hours.  There's  a  paragraph  .  .  second  col- 
umn .  .  near  the  bottom. 

CARNABY.  [Looking  at  it  blindly.']  They  print  villain- 
ously now-a-days. 

LORD  ARTHUR.     Inspired. 

CARNABY.     I  trust  his  Grace  is  well? 

LORD  ARTHUR.      Gouty. 

CARNABY.  Now  docsn't  the  social  aspect  of  this  case 
interest  you? 

LORD  ARTHUR.    I  objcct  to  feeding  with  the  lower  classes. 

CARNABY.  There's  pride !  How  useful  to  note  their 
simple  manners !  From  the  meeting  of  extremes  new 
ideas  spring  .  .  new  life, 

LORD  ARTHUR.  Take  that  for  a  new  social-political 
creed,  Mr.  Leete. 

CARNABY.     Do  I  lack  one? 

LORD  ARTHUR.    Plcasc  make  my  adieux  to  the  bride. 


ACT  IV]  ANN   LEETE  66 

CARNABY.  Appropriate  .  .  .  *a  Dieu'  .  .  she  enters  Na- 
ture's cloister.    My  epigram. 

LORD  ARTHUR.  But  .  .  good  heavcHS  .  .  are  we  to 
choose  to  be  toiling  animals? 

CARNABY.    To  be  such  is  my  daughter's  ambition. 

LORD  ARTHUR.    You  have  not  read  that. 

CARNABY.  IGiving  back  the  paper,  vexedly.']  I  can't 
see. 

LORD  ARTHUR.  "The  Right  Honourable  Carnaby  Leete 
is,  we  are  glad  to  hear,  completely  recovered  and  will  re- 
turn to  town  for  the  opening  of  Session." 

CARNABY.     I  mentioned  it. 

LORD  ARTHUR.  "Wc  Understand  that  although  there  has 
been  no  reconciliation  with  the  Government  it  is  quite 
untrue  that  this  gentleman  will  in  any  way  resume  his 
connection  with  the  Opposition." 

CARNABY.     Inspired  ? 

LORD  ARTHUR.  I  am  here  from  my  father  to  answer  any 
questions. 

CARNABY.  [With  some  dignity  and  the  touch  of  a 
threat."]     Not  now,  my  lord. 

DIM  MUCK  comes  in  at  the  front  door, 

DiMMUCK.    The  chaise,  my  lord. 

CARNABY.    I  will  couduct  you. 

LORD  ARTHUR.     Plcasc  don't  risk  exposure. 

CARNABY.    Nay,  I  insist. 

LORD  ARTHUR.  Health  and  happiness  to  you  both,  Mr. 
Abud. 

LORD    ARTHUR   gOCS    OUt,    folloWcd   by    CARNABY,    fol- 

lowed  by  dimmuck.    At  that  moment  mr.  small- 
PEICE  skips  excitedly  out  of  the  dining-room,     A 
ferret-like  little  lawyer. 
MR.  smallpeice.     Oh  .  .  where  is  Mr.  Leete? 

Not  seeing  him  mr.  smallpeice  skips  as  excitedly 
hack  into  the  dining-room,    dimmuck  returns  and 


66  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  iv 

hangs  up  his  cloak  then  goes  towards  abud,  whom 
he  surveys. 
DiMMUCK.     Sir! 

With  which  insult  he  starts  for  the  dining-room 
reaching  the  door  just  in  time  to  hold  it  open  for 

SIR  GEORGE  LEETE  who  COmCS  OUt.     He  SUrVCyS  ABUD 

for  a  moment,  then  explodes. 
SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.     Damn  you  .  .  stand  in  the  presence 
of  your  grandfather-in-law. 

ABUD  stands  up.     carnaby  returns  coughing,  and 

SIR  GEORGE  looks  him  up  and  down. 
SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.     I  shall  attend  your  funeral. 
CARNABY.     My  daughter  Sarah  still  needs  me. 
SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.     I  wonder  at  you,  my  son. 
CARNABY.     Have  you  any  money  to  spare? 

SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.      No. 

CARNABY.  For  Sarah,  my  housekeeper ;  I  foresee  a  busy 
session. 

ABUD  is  now  gingerly  walking  up  the  stairs. 
SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.     Carnaby  .  .  look  at  that. 
CARNABY.     Sound    in    wind    and    limb.      Tread    boldly, 
son-in-law. 

ABUD  turns,  stands  awkwardly  for  a  moment  and 
then  goes  into  the  dining-room. 
SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.     [Relapsing  into  a  pinch  of  snuif.} 
I'm  calm. 

CARNABY.  Regard  this  marriage  with  a  wise  eye  .  .  as 
an  amusing  little  episode. 

SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.   Do  yOU  ? 

CARNABY.  And  forget  its  oddity.  Now  that  the  hu- 
miHation  is  irrevocable,  is  it  a  personal  grievance  to  you? 

SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.  Give  me  a  dinner  a  day  for  the  rest 
of  my  Hfe  and  I'll  be  content. 

CARNABY.  Lately,  one  by  one,  opinions  and  desires 
have  been  failing  me  .  .  a  flicker  and  then  extinction. 


ACT  iv]  ANN   LEETE  f^T 

I  shall  shortly  attain  to  being  a  most  able  critic  upon 
life. 

SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.  Shall  I  tell  you  again?  You  came 
into  this  world  without  a  conscience.  That  explains  you 
and  it's  all  that  does.  That  such  a  damnable  coupling  as 
this  should  be  permitted  by  God  Almighty  .  .  or  that  the 
law  shouldn't  interfere !    I've  said  my  say. 

MR.  SMALLPEICE  again  comes  out  of   the  dining- 
room. 

MR.  SMALLPEICE.     Mr.  Lecte. 

CARNABY.     [Ironically  polite.]     Mr.  Shallpeice. 

MR.  SMALLPEICE.  Mr.  Crowc  is  proposing  your  health. 
MR.  CROWE  comes  out.  A  crop-headed  beefy-looking 
farmer  of  sixty. 

MR.  CROWE.    Was. 

CARNABY.    There's  a  good  enemy! 

MR.  CROWE.     Get  out  of  my  road  .  .  lawyer  Smallpeice. 

CARNABY.  Leave  enough  of  him  living  to  attend  to  my 
business. 

MR.  SMALLPEICE.  [Wriggling  a  bow  at  carnaby.]  Oh  .  . 
dear  sir! 

SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.  {DisguStcdly  tO  MR.  SMALLPEICE.]  YoU  ! 

MR.  SMALLPEICE.     Employed  in  a  small  matter  .  .  as  yet. 
CARNABY.     \To  CROWE.]     I  hope  you  spoke  your  mind 
of  me. 

MR.  CROWE.     Not  behind  your  back,  sir. 

MRS.     GEORGE     LEETE     leads     LADY     LEETE     from     the 

dining-room,     lady  leete  is  a  very  old,  blind  and 
decrepit  woman,    dolly  is  a  buxom  young  mother; 
whose  attire  borders  on  the  gaudy. 
CARNABY.     [With  some  tenderness.']     Well  .  .  Mother 
.  .  dear? 

MR.  CROWE.  [Bumptiously  to  sir  george  leete.]  Did 
my  speech  offend  you,  my  lord? 

SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.    [SulkHy.]    I'm  a  baronet. 


68  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  iv 

LADY  LEETE.      Who's   thlS  hefC? 

CARNABY.     Carnaby. 

DOLLY.     Step  down  .  .  grandmother. 

LADY  LEETE.    Who  did  yc  say  you  were? 

DOLLY.     Mrs.  George  Leete. 

LADY  LEETE.     Take  me  to  the  fire-side. 

So  CARNABY  and  DOLLY  lead  her  slowly  to  a  chair 
by  the  fire  where  they  carefully  bestow  her. 

MR.  SMALLPEicE.  \_To  FARMER  CROWE.]  He's  leaving 
Markswayde,  you  know  .  .  and  me  agent. 

LADY  LEETE.  [Suddenly  bethinking  her."]  Grace  was 
not  said.    Fetch  my  chaplain  .  .  at  once. 

MR.  SMALLPEICE.      I  will   rUU. 

He  runs  into  the  dining-room. 
DOLLY.     [Calling  after  with  her  country  accent. '\     Not 
parson  Remnant  .  .  t'other  one. 
LADY  LEETE.     [Demanding.']     Snuff. 
CARNABY.     [To  his  father.]     Sir  .  .  my  hand  is  a  little 
unsteady. 

SIR  GEORGE  and  CARNABY  bctwcen  them  give  lady 
LEETE  her  snuff. 
MR.  CROWE.    Dolly  .  .  ought  those  children  to  be  left 
so  long? 
dolly.    All  right,  father  .  .  I  have  a  maid. 

lady  LEETE  snccses. 
SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.     She'll  do  that  once  too  often  alto- 
gether. 

LADY   LEETE.       I'm    COld. 

DOLLY.     I'm  cold  .  .  I  lack  my  shawl. 

CROWE.     Call  out  to  your  man  for  it. 

DOLLY.  [Going  to  the  dining-room  door.]  Will  a  gen- 
tleman please  ask  Mr.  George  Leete  for  my  Cache-y-mire 
shawl  ? 

MR.  CROWE.  [To  CARNABY.]  And  I  drank  to  the  health 
of  our  grandson. 


ACT  iv]  ANN   LEETE 


CARNABY.  Now  supposc  GeoTge  were  to  assume  your 
name,  Mr.  Crowe? 

MR.  TOZER  comes  out  of  the  dining-room.    Of  the 
worst  type  of  eighteenth  century  parson,  for  which 
one  may  see  Hogarth's  'Harlot's  Progress/    He  is 
very  drunk. 
SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.     [/»  his  Wife's  ^flf.]    Tozcf ! 
LADY  LEETE.     When  .  .  why ! 
SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.     To  Say  gracc. 

LADY  LEETE  folds  her  withered  hands. 
MR.  TOZER.     [Through  his  hiccoughs,']    Damn  you  all. 
LADY  LEETE.     [Reverently,  thinking  it  is  saidJ]    Amen. 
MR.  TOZER.     Only  my  joke. 

CARNABY.  [Rising  to  the  height  of  the  occasion.]  Mr. 
Tozer,  I  am  indeed  glad  to  see  you,  upon  this  occasion,  so 
delightfully  drunk. 

MR.  TOZER.    Always  a  gen'elman  .  .  by  nature. 
SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.    Lie  dowu  .  .  you  dog. 

GEORGE  comes  out  carrying  the  cashmere  shawl. 
GEORGE.     [To  his  father.]     Dolly  wants  her  father  to 
rent  Markswayde,  sir. 

MR.  CROWE.  Not  me,  my  son.  You're  to  be  a  farmer- 
baronet. 

SIR  GEORGE.     Curse  your  impudence! 
CARNABY.    My  one  regret  in  dying  would  be  to  miss 
seeing  him  so. 

GEORGE  goes  hack  into  the  dining-room. 
MR.  CROWE.    I  am  tickled  to  think  that  the  man  marry- 
ing your  daughter  wasn't  good  enough  for  mine. 

CARNABY.  And  yet  at  fisticuffs  I'd  back  John  Abud 
against  our  son  George. 

DR.  REMNANT  has  comc  out  of  the  dining-room. 
TOzer  has  stumbled  towards  him  and  is  wagging  an 
argumentative  finger. 
MR,  TOZER,  .  .  Marriage  means  enjoyment  1 


70  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  iv 

DR.  REMNANT.  [Controlling  his  indignation.']  I  repeat 
that  I  have  found  in  my  own  copy  of  the  prayer  book  no 
insistence  upon  a  romantic  passion. 

MR.  TOZER.  My  'terpretation  of  God's  word  is  'bove 
criticism. 

MR.  TOZER  reaches  the  door  and  falls  into  the  dining- 
room. 

CARNABY.  [Weakly  to  dr.  remnant.]  Give  me  your 
arm  for  a  moment. 

DR.  remnant.  I  think  Lady  Cottesham  has  Mrs.  John 
Abud  prepared  to  start,  sir. 

CARNABY.  I  trust  Ann  will  take  no  chill  walking  through 
the  mud. 

DR.  remnant.    Won't  you  sit  down,  sir? 

CARNABY.      No. 

For  some  moments  crowe  has  been  staring  indig- 
nantly at  SIR  GEORGE.    Now  he  breaks  out. 
MR.  CROWE.     The  front  door  of  this  mansion  is  opened 
to  a  common  gardener  and  only  then  to  me  and  mine ! 

SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.  [Virulently.]  Damn  you  and  yours 
and  damn  them  .  .  and  damn  you  again  for  the  worse 
disgrace. 

MR.  CROWE.  Damn  you,  sir  .  .  have  you  paid  him  to 
marry  the  girl  ? 

He  turns  away,  purple  faced,  and  sir  george  chokes 
impotently.  abud  and  mr.  prestige  come  out  talk- 
ing.   He  is  younger  and  less  assertive  than  farmer 

CROWE. 

MR.  PRESTIGE.  [Pathetically.]  All  our  family  always  has 
got  drunk  at  weddings. 

ABUD.     [In  remonstrance.]    Please,  uncle. 

CARNABY.  Mr.  Crowe  .  .  I  have  been  much  to  blame 
for  not  seeking  you  sooner. 

MR.  CROWE.     [Mollified.]     Shake  hands. 

CARNABY.     [Offering  his  with  some  difficulty. "l    My  arm 


ACT  iv];  ANN  LEETE  Ttt 

is  stiff  .  .  from  an  accident.    This  is  a  maid^s  marriage, 
I  assure  you. 

MR.  PRESTIGE.     lOpcfi  mouthed  to  DR.  REMNANT.]    One 
could  hang  bacon  here ! 

DOLLY.     [Very  high  and  mighty.']    The  family  don't. 

CARNABY.     [To  his  father.']     And  won't  you  apologise 
for  your  remarks  to  Mr.  Crowe,  sir  ? 

LADY  LEETE.     [Demanding.]    Snuff ! 

CARNABY.    And  your  box  to  my  mother,  sir. 
SIR  GEORGE  attends  to  his  wife. 

DOLLY.     [Anxiously  to  dr.  remnant.]    Can  a  gentleman 
change  his  name? 

MR.  CROWE.    Parson  .  .  once  noble  always  noble,  I  take 
it. 

DR.  REMNANT.    Certainly  .  .  but  I  hope  you  have  money 
to  leave  them,  Mr.  Crowe. 

DOLLY.       [To  ABUD.]     John. 

ABUD.     Dorothy. 

DOLLY.    You've  not  seen  my  babies  yet. 

LADY  LEETE  sneezes. 
SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.    Camaby  .  .  d'ye  intend  to  murder 
that  Crowe  fellow  .  .  or  must  I  ? 

MR.  SMALLPEiCE  skips  from  the  dining-room. 
MR.  SMALLPEICE.    Mr.  Johu  Abud  .  . 

MR.    CROWE.        [To    DR.    REMNANT    OS    he    HOds    tOWOrdS 

CARNABY.]    Don't  tell  me  he's  got  over  that  fever  yet. 

MR.  SMALLPEICE.  .  .  The  ladlcs  say  .  .  are  you  ready 
or  are  you  not? 

MR.  PRESTIGE.     I'll  get  thy  cloak,  John. 

MR.  PRESTIGE  goes  for  the  cloak,    carnaby  has  taken 
a  pistol  from  the  mantel-piece  and  now  points  it  at 

ABUD. 

CARNABY.     He's  fit  for  heaven! 

GEORGE   LEETE  comcs  from  the  dining-room,  and, 
noticing  his  father's  action,  says  sharply  .  . 


7^  THE  MARRYING  OF  [act  iv 

GEORGE.    I  suppose  you  know  that  pistol's  loaded. 

Which  calls  everyone's  attention,    dolly  shrieks. 
CARNABY.     What  if  there  had  been  an  accident! 

And  he  puts  back  the  pistol,    abud  takes  his  cloak 

from  PRESTIGE. 

ABUD.    Thank  you,  uncle. 

MR.  PRESTIGE.     I'm  a  proud  man,  Mr.  Crowe  . . 
CARNABY.     Pride ! 

GEORGE.  IHas  a  sudden  inspiration,  and  strides  up  to 
ABUD.]  Here  ends  the  joke,  my  good  fellow.  Be  off  with- 
out your  wife. 

ABUD  stares,  as  do  the  others.    Only  carnaby  sud- 
denly catches  remnant's  arm. 
MR.  prestige.     [Solemnly.']    But  it's  illegal  to  separate 
them. 

GEORGE.     [Giving  up.']     Mr.   Prestige  .  .  you  are  the 
backbone  of  England. 
CARNABY.     [To  REMNANT.]     Where  are  your  miracles? 
MRS.  PRESTIGE  comcs  out.  A  mothcrly  farmer's  wife, 
a  mountain  of  a  woman. 
MRS.  PRESTIGE.    John  .  .  kiss  your  aunt. 

ABUD  goes  to  her,  and  she  obliterates  him  in  an 
embrace. 
GEORGE.     [To  his  father.]     Sense  of  humour  .  .  Sense 
of  humour ! 

LADY  LEETE.      Snuff. 

But  no  one  heeds  her  this  time, 
CARNABY.     It  doesn't  matter. 
GEORGE.     Smile.    Let's  be  helpless  gracefully. 

CARNABY.     There  are  moments  when  I'm  not  sure^ 

GEORGE.     It's  her  own  life. 

TOZER  staggers  from  the  dining-room  drunker  than 

ever.    He  falls  against  the  baluster  and  waves  his 

arms. 
MR.  TOZER.    Silence  there  for  the  corpse ! 


ACT  iv]  ANN  LEETE  7S 

MR.  CROWE.    You  beast! 
MR.  TOZER.     Respect  my  cloth  .  .  Mr.  Prestige. 
MR.  CROWE.     That's  not  my  name. 
MR.  TOZER.    I'll  have  you  to  know  that  I'm  Sir  George 
Leete's  baronet's  most  boon  companion  and  her  la'ship 
never  goes  nowhere  without  me.     [He  subsides  into  a 
chair.'] 
LADY  LEETE.     [Tearfully J]     Snuff. 

From  the  dining-room  comes  ann;  her  head  bent. 
She  is  crossing  the  hall  when  sarah  follows,  call- 
ing her. 
SARAH.    Ann ! 

ANN  turns  back  to  kiss  her.  The  rest  of  the  com- 
pany stand  gating,    sir  george  gives  snuif  to  lady 

LEETE. 

ANN.    Good  bye,  Sally. 

SARAH.     [In  a  whisper.]     Forget  us. 

GEORGE.     [Relieving  his  feelings.]    Good-bye,  everybody 
.  .  good-bye,  everything. 

ABUD  goes  to  the  front  door  and  opening  it  stands 
waiting  for  her.  She  goes  coldly  but  timidly  to 
her  father,  to  whom  she  puts  her  face  up  to  be 
kissed. 

ANN.    Good-bye,  Papa. 

CARNABY.     [Quietly,  as  he  kisses  her  cheek.]    I  can  do 
without  you. 

SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.     [Raging  at  the  draught.]    Shut  that 
idoor. 

ANN.    I'm  gone. 

She  goes  with  her  husband,  mrs.  opie  comes 
hurriedly  out  of  the  dining-room,  too  late. 

MRS.  OPIE.      Oh! 

DR.  REMNANT.    Run  .  .  Mrs.  Opie. 

CARNABY.     There  has  started  the  new  century ! 

MRS.  OPIE  opens  the  front  door  to  look  after  them. 


74  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  iv 

SIR  GEORGE  LEETE.     {With  doublc  energy. '\     Shut  that 
door. 

LADY  LEETE  sneeses  and  then  chokes.  There  is  much 
commotion  in  her  neighbourhood. 

SIR  GEORGE.    Now  shc's  huft  again. 

DOLLY.    Water ! 

MR.  CROWE.    Brandy! 

SARAH.     [^Going.']     ril  fetch  both. 

GEORGE.    We  must  all  die  .  .  some  day. 

MR.  TOZER.     [Who  has  struggled  up  to  see  what  is  the 
matter.']    And  go  to 

DR.  REMNANT.    Hell.    You  do  believc  in  that,  Mr.  Tozer. 

MRS.  OPIE.    [Fanning  the  poor  old  lady.}     She's  better. 

CARNABY.     [To  his  guests.']     Gentlemen  .  .  punch. 

PRESTIGE  and  smallpeice;  mrs.  prestige,  george 
and  DOLLY  move  towards  the  dining-room. 

MR.  prestige.     [To  smallpeice.]     You  owe  all  this  to 
me. 

MR.  CROWE.    Dolly  .  .  I'm  going. 

MRS.  PRESTIGE.     [To  her  husband  as  she  nods  towards 
CARNABY.]     Nathaniel  .  .  look  at  'im. 

GEORGE.     [To  his  father-in-law.]     Must  we  come  too? 

MRS.  PRESTIGE.     [As  before.]    I  can't  help  it  .  .  a  sneer- 
in'  carpin*  cavillin'  devil! 

MRS.  opiE.    Markswayde  is  to  let  .  .  as  I  hear  .  .  Mr. 
Leete  ? 

CARNABY.    Markswayde  is  to  let. 

He  goes  on  his  way  to  the  dining-room  meeting 
SARAH  who  comes  out  carrying  a  glass  of  water 
and  a  decanter  of  brandy,  sir  george  leete  is 
comfortably  warming  himself  at  the  fire. 

The  living  room  of  john  abud's  new  cottage  has  bare 
plaster  walls  and  its  ceilings  and  floor  are  of  red. 


ACT  iv]  ANN   LEETE  75 

brick;  all  fresh  looking  but  not  new.  In  the  middle 
of  the  middle  wall  there  is  a  latticed  window,  dimity 
curtained;  upon  the  plain  shelf  in  front  are  several 
flower-pots. 

To  the  right  of  this,  a  door,  cross  beamed  and  with  a  large 
lock  to  it  besides  the  latch. 

Against  the  right  hand  wall,  is  a  dresser,  furnished  with 
dishes  and  plates:  below  it  is  a  common  looking 
grandfather  clock;  below  this  a  small  door  which 
when  opened  shows  winding  stairs  leading  to  the 
room  above.  In  the  left  hand  wall  there  is  a  door 
which  is  almost  hidden  by  the  fireplace  which  juts 
out  below  it.  In  the  fireplace  a  wood  fire  is  laid 
but  not  lit.  At  right  angles  to  this  stands  a  heavy 
oak  settle  opposite  a  plain  deal  table;  just  beyond 
which  is  a  little  bench.  On  either  side  of  the  win- 
dow  is  a  Windsor  armchair.  Between  the  window 
and  the  door  hangs  a  framed  sampler. 

In  the  darkness  the  sound  of  the  unlocking  of  a  door  and 
of  ABUD  entering  is  heard.  He  walks  to  the  table, 
strikes  a  light  upon  a  tinder-box  and  lights  a  candle 
which  he  finds  there,  ann  is  standing  in  the  door- 
way. ABUD  is  in  stocking  feet. 
ABUD.    Don't  come  further.    Here  are  your  slippers. 

He  places  one  of  the  Windsor  chairs  for  her  on  which 
she  sits  while  he  takes  off  her  wet  shoes  and  puts 
on  her  slippers  which  he  found  on  the  table.  Then 
he  takes  her  wet  shoes  to  the  fireplace.  She  sits 
'still.  Then  he  goes  to  the  door  and  brings  in  his 
own  boots  from  the  little  porch  and  puts  them  in 
the  fireplace  too.  Then  he  locks  the  door  and  hangs 
up  the  key  beside  it.  Then  he  stands  looking  at 
her;  but  she  does  not  speak,  so  he  takes  the  candle, 
lifts  it  above  his  head  and  walks  to  the  dresser. 
ABUD.    [Encouragingly. 1    Our  dresser  .  .  Thomas  Jupp 


76  THE   MARRYING  OF  [act  iv 

made  that.     Plates  and  dishes.     Here's  Uncle  Prestige's 
clock. 
ANN.    Past  seven, 

ABUD.    That's  upstairs.    Table  and  bench,  deal.    Oak 
settle  .  .  solid. 
ANN.     Charming. 

ABUD.    Windsor  chairs  .  .  Mother's  sampler. 
ANN.    Home. 

ABUD.    Is  it  as  you  wish?    I  have  been  glad  at  your 
not  seeing  it  until  to-night. 

ANN.     I'm  sinking  into  the  strangeness  of  the  place. 
ABUD.    Very  weary?    It's  been  a  long  nine  miles. 

She  does  not  answer.    He  goes  and  considers  the 
Hower-pots  in  the  window, 
ANN.     I  still  have  on  my  cloak. 

ABUD.    Hang  it  behind  the  door  there  .  .  no  matter  if 
the  wet  drips. 
ANN.    I  can  wipe  up  the  puddle. 

She  hangs  up  her  cloak.    He  selects  a  -flower-pot 
and  brings  it  to  her. 
ABUD.    Hyacinth  bulbs  for  the  spring. 
ANN.     [After  a  glance.']     I  don't  want  to  hold  them. 

He  puts  hack  the  pot,  a  little  disappointed. 
ABUD.    Out  there's  the  scullery. 
ANN.     It's  very  cold. 

ABUD.    If  we  light  the  fire  now  that  means  more  trouble 
in  the  morning. 

She  sits  on  the  settle. 
ANN.    Yes,  I  am  very  weary. 
ABUD.    Go  to  bed. 
ir^ABUD.    Not  yet.    [After  a  moment.']     How  much  light 
one  candle  gives !   Sit  where  I  may  see  you. 

He  sits  on  the  bench.    She  studies  him  curiously. 
ANN.    Well  .  .  this  is  an  experiment. 
ABUD.    [With  reverence.']    God  help  us  both. 


ACT  iv]  ANN   LEETE  77 

ANN.  Amen.  Some  people  are  so  careful  of  their  lives. 
If  we  fail  miserably  we'll  hold  our  tongues  .  .  won't  we? 

ABUD.     I  don't  know  .  .  I  can't  speak  of  this. 

ANN.  These  impossible  things  which  are  done  mustn't 
be  talked  of  .  .  that  spoils  them.  We  don't  want  to  boast 
of  this,  do  we? 

ABUD.  I  fancy  nobody  quite  believes  that  we  are  mar- 
ried. 

ANN.    Here's  my  ring  .  .  real  gold. 

ABUD.  [With  a  sudden  fierce  throw  up  of  his  head."] 
Never  you  remind  me  of  the  difference  between  us. 

ANN.     Don't  speak  to  me  so. 

ABUD.     Now  I'm  your  better. 

ANN.    My  master  .  .  The  door's  locked. 

ABUD.  [Nodding.']  I  know  that  I  must  be  ..  or  be  a 
'fool. 

ANN.     [After  a  moment.']    Be  kind  to  me. 

ABUD.     [With  remorse.]    Always  I  will. 

ANN.     You  are  master  here. 

ABUD.    And  I've  angered  you? 

ANN.  And  if  I  fail  .  .  I'll  never  tell  you  .  .  to  make  a 
fool  of  you.  And  you're  trembling.  [She  sees  his  hand, 
which  is  on  the  table,  shake.] 

ABUD.     Look  at  that  now. 

ANN.     [Lifting  her  own.]  My  white  hands  must  redden. 
No  more  dainty  appetite  .  .  no  more  pretty  books. 
''"  ABUD.    Have  you  learned  to  scrub  ? 

ANN.    Not  this  floor. 

ABUD.  Mother  always  did  bricks  with  a  mop.  To- 
morrow I  go  to  work.    You'll  be  left  for  all  day. 

ANN.    I  must  make  friends  with  the  other  women  around. 

ABUD.    My  friends  are  very  curious  about  you. 

ANN.     I'll  wait  to  begin  till  I'm  seasoned. 

ABUD.     Four  o'clock's  the  hour  for  getting  up. 

ANN.    Early  rising  always  was  a  vice  of  mine. 


78  THE   MARRYING   OF         [act  iv 

ABUD.    Breakfast  quickly  .  .  .  and  I  take  my   dinner 
with  me. 

ANN.    In  a  handkerchief. 

ABUD.    Hot  supper,  please. 

ANN.    It  shall  be  ready  for  you. 
^         There  is  silence  between  them  for  a  little.    Then  he 
says  timidly, 

ABUD.     May  I  come  near  to  you? 

ANN.     [In  a  low  voice."]     Come. 
He  sits  beside  her,  gazing. 

ABUD.    Wife  .  .  I  never  have  kissed  you. 

ANN.     Shut  your  eyes. 

ABUD.    Are  you  afraid  of  me? 

ANN.     We're  not  to  play  such  games  at  love. 

ABUD.    I  can't  help  wanting  to  feel  very  tender  towards 
you- 

i.NN.     Think  of  me  .  .  not  as  a  wife  .  .  but  as  a  mother 
of  your  children  .  .  if  it's  to  be  so.    Treat  me  so. 

ABUD.    You  are  a  part  of  me. 

ANN.    V^e  must  try  and  understand  it  .  .  as  a  simple 
thing. 

ABUD.     But  shall  I  kiss  you? 

ANN.     [Lowering  her  head.]    Kiss  me. 

But  when  he  puts  his  arms  round  her  she  shrinks, 

ANN.      No. 

ABUD.    But  I  will.    It's  my  right. 

Almost  by  force  he  kisses  her.     Afterwards  she 
clenches  her  hands,  and  seems  to  suffer. 

ABUD.    Have  I  hurt  you? 

She  gives  him  her  hand,  with  a  strange  little  smile. 

ANN.    I  forgive  you. 

ABUD.     [Encouraged.]    Ann  .  .  we're  beginning  life  to- 
gether. 

ANN.    Remember  ,  .  work's  enough  ,  .  no  stopping  to 
(talk. 


ACT  iv]  ANN    LEETE  79 

ABUD.    I'll  work  for  you. 

ANN.    I'll  do  my  part  .     something  will  come  of  it. 
For  a  moment  they  .      og ether  hand  in  hand.  Then 
she  leaves  him  and  jj.:es  across  the  room.    There 
is  a  slight  pause. 
ANN.    Papa  .  .  I  said  .  .  weVe  all  been  in  too  great  a 
hurry  getting  civilised.    False  dawn.    I  mean  to  go  back. 
ABUD.    He  laughed. 

ANN.  So  he  saw  I  was  of  no  use  to  him,  and  he's  penni- 
less, and  he  let  me  go.  When  my  father  dies  what  will  he 
take  with  him  ?  .  .  .  for  you  do  take  your  works  with  you 
into  Heaven  or  Hell,  I  believe.  Much  wit.  Sally  is  afraid 
to  die.  Don't  you  aspire  like  George's  wife.  I  was  afraid 
to  live  .  .  and  now  .  .  I  am  content. 

She  walks  slowly  to  the  window,  and  from  there  to 
the  door,  against  which  she  places  her  ear.    Then 
she  looks  round  at  her  husband. 
ANN.    I  can  hear  them  chattering. 

Then  she  goes  to  the  little  door  and  opens  it.    abud 
takes  up  the  candle, 
ABUD.    I'll  hold  the  light  .  .  the  stairs  are  steeg. 
Uq  lights  her  up,  the  stairs. 


CAST   OF   CHARACTERS 


81 


"The  Marrying  of  Ann  Leete"  was  'produced  by  the 
Stage  Society,  at  the  Royalty  Theatre,  on  the  evening  of 
January  26th,  IQ02. 


Ann  Leete 

Lord  John  Carp 

George  Leete 

Mr.  Daniel  Tatton 

Lady  Cottesham 

Carnaby  Leete 

John  Abud 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Remnant 

Mrs.  Opie 

DiMMUCK 

Mr.  Tetgeen 
Lord  Arthur  Carp 
Mr.  Smallpeice 
Sir  George  Leete 
Mr.  Crowe 
Lady  Leete 
Mrs.  George  Leete 
The  Rev.  Mr.  Tozer 
Mr.  Prestige 
Mrs.  Prestige 


Miss  Winifred  Fraser 

Julian  Royce 

Kenneth  Douglas 

J.  Malcolm  Dunn 

Miss  Henrietta  Watson 

H.  A.  Saint sbury 

C.  M.  Hallard 

Howard  Sturge 

Miss  Helen  Rous 

George  Trollope 

A.  E.  George 

Charles  V.  France 

J.  Y.  F.  Cooke 

Arthur  Grenville 

Sydney  Paxton 

Miss  Bessie  Page 

Miss  Florence  Neville 

Ivan  Berlin 

Howard  Templeton 

Mrs.  Gordon  Gray 


X 


14  DAY  USE 

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This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subjea  to  immediate  recall. 


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REC'D  LC> 


JUL  1  5  1990 


JUN  1    J%JI 


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RECD  LD 


OCT    31960 


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REC'D  LD 


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RECn  I..D 


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